No I in Team
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: "I'm putting together a special team, with special privileges." When Major William Stryker plucks James Howlett and Victor Creed from a Vietnam prison, he promises them a new life. Acceptance, and a strange sort of family, are what the brothers find for themselves in Stryker's team. But as the missions get darker tensions start to fray, and eventually something has to give.
1. Fresh Faces

No I in Team

* * *

"_We obtain the concept, as we do the form, by overlooking what is individual and actual; whereas nature is acquainted with no forms and no concepts, and likewise with no species, but only with an X which remains inaccessible and undefinable for us." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_1. Fresh Faces_

The jeep's engine roared as the young soldier in the driver's seat sped the vehicle along the gravel road. James leant forward from the back seat, his seatbelt straining against his chest, to speak in Stryker's ear.

"How much longer?"

"Not long," Stryker said, with a small smile.

"That's what you said six hours ago, when we got off your plane and got into this car."

"I promise we'll be there soon."

"And where is 'there' exactly?" he demanded. He glanced at Victor, and saw his brother's lips quirk up at the corners. The smell of amusement reached James' sensitive nose.

"You already know I can't tell you where we're going," Stryker countered. He turned his head to look at the occupants of the back seat. "Should you decide to take me up on my offer, that information will be disclosed to you at the appropriate time. Until then, please consider yourselves my guests, and don't worry about where we are or where we're heading. It's just one more stop on the road for you."

James sat back and growled. This 'Stryker' was a cagey bastard, dangling the carrot temptingly in front of their noses whilst offering no solid answers. But that was the government for you; they wouldn't tell you anything unless they had you by the balls. But anger was useless. Sure, he could be angry at the man who'd 'rescued' both himself and Victor from that Viet prison, but anger wouldn't get him ansers.

So, James closed his eyes, drew a long breath of air through his nose, and focused his attention on what his senses fed to him He'd already seen the road ahead, illuminated in the darkness by the white headlights of the jeep, and there was nothing but trees and bushes. His keen sense of smell had a little more difficulty inside the vehicle; gas was the prevalent odour, and it tasted sharp and oily in the back of his mouth. Beside the gas, human sweat was the next strongest thing, and each man inside the jeep had his own unique scent.

Beside him, sitting with a relaxed tension and casual alertness, James' half-brother Victor smelled of strength and confidence, and a little excitement. James knew where the excitement stemmed from; Major Stryker had promised the brothers 'special privileges,' and Victor _liked_ privileges. Though James would never admit it to anyone, Victor scared him at times. He wasn't afraid of his brother; he was afraid of what his brother was capable of. Together they'd fought in some half-dozen wars and countless minor skirmishes, battling their enemies side by side. Victor wasn't afraid of death, nor pain, and he seemed to consider the spoils of war his God-given right. Usually the spoils included wealth, but more than once a woman had taken his fancy, and James had been forced to step in to stop his brother from crossing a line that no man should ever cross.

Stryker himself had the passenger seat in the front of the jeep, and he smelled like a cat who'd just brought home two mice. Not that there was anything mouse-like at all about James and Victor, but that was one of the things which intrigued James most; it was rare to find an individual who didn't fear what he and his brother were, and rarer to find someone who seemed to understand what it meant to be different, what it meant to be always on the run, always one step ahead of the game. Of course, James had yet to determine what game Stryker was playing. That's why he'd agreed to come along. Just to see what Stryker was up to. Just to see how this might work out. No promises had been made. Not yet. Maybe never.

The driver of the jeep was a Private or a Corporal; James didn't know or care for the rank. Such things made little difference when you outlived your superior officers through sheer virtue of being immortal. The young man did, however, smell of nervousness, but it was a controlled nervousness, and James couldn't tell whether the guy was nervous because of his passengers, or because of the speed he'd been told to drive the jeep at in the dark. Could have been either, or both.

There were other smells, which came rushing in through the open window on Victor's side of the jeep. Scents of trees and flowers, of animals rutting and shedding and dying, of fresh breezes which hinted at a rain storm to come. Fresh air was one of James' favourite smells. There was something clean about it, something which made him feel new inside when he inhaled it. Sometimes he could smell the static in the air, which made him sneeze uncontrollably—and made Victor laugh at him—but even that was better than the smell of a town and its miasma of cooked and overcooked food, of stale alcohol and piss-stained walls, of hundreds and thousands of human beings, pressed together, their scents intermingling to the point where at times it was overwhelming.

But the worst smell… the worst was a smell he was sadly all too familiar with. It haunted his every movement, following him around, seeking him out even when he tried to avoid it. Blood smelled of metal, of bitter warmth and even sometimes of fear and pain. Victor, James knew, revelled in that smell, enjoyed being the cause of it. James tolerated it because he had to. Because wars needed soldiers, and James wasn't good at much except fighting. It was the only life he'd known, brought into it at the tender age of twelve when, in a fit of primal rage, he'd killed a man he hadn't known he was his father, and then had been dragged further into the life by Victor, who didn't want to keep going alone, who needed his little brother to look out for him and hold him back when the blood-lust was upon him.

The sounds were as difficult to make out as the smells. The jeep's engine roared, a primitive beast complaining at its ill-treatment, and it drowned out most other sounds. Victor, of course, sat in perfect silence, whilst Stryker's radio crackled with static as it intermittently lost its reception. The driver was breathing heavily, the sound audible above the growling engine; further indication of the nerves he held tightly leashed.

The last sense James called upon as his would-be employers bore him ever forwards, was his sense of touch. Most people barely even considered it a sense at all, but James, like a wild animal, was in tune with every haptic sensation which crossed his skin. Cool breezes were gentle caresses. Blood was a warm shower which made him feel unclean. Water, whether hot or cold, felt cleansing and renewing. Different materials with different fibres each told their own stories; from cold smooth leather, to warm itchy wool, every touch told him something about where he was.

Right now, his tactile sense told him that he was being bounced around in the back of a jeep, in some unknown part of a country—either Canada or the USA, he knew that much—and that the seat was an uncomfortable canvas polymer. The bouncing was unpleasant, and a result of the fact that this road was not paved but stone-chipped; something he had already confirmed with his eyes. That, in itself, told James almost half of what he needed to know. An unpaved road meant only one thing. _Secrecy_. This was not a public highway. Wherever Stryker was taking them, it was probably off the map, hard to find, and well-guarded. Just what James had come to expect from the military.

On the seat beside him, Victor seemed completely unconcerned, despite the fact that only some twenty-hours earlier, both he and James had been executed by firing-squad for Victor's killing of a senior officer. For immortals like Victor and James, death by firing-squad was more of a minor inconvenience than anything.

Deciding that Stryker might respond to a different mode of attack, James leant forward again to make himself heard over the roaring engine.

"Tell me about this 'special' team you're putting together."

"All in good time, James."

James growled in his throat, and Victor chuckled. "You've flown us halfway across the world to meet this team of yours, and you won't even tell us a single thing about them? You're a soldier; would _you_ settle for going in blind?"

"If my superior officers ordered it, of course," Stryker replied. His scent didn't change one bit.

"You ain't my superior officer yet. And if you ever _want_ to be, you should know that Victor and I don't enjoy surprises."

"I like being the bearer of surprises, more than the receiver," Victor agreed, cracking his knuckles noisily.

Stryker sighed, but showed no signs of fear. Quite unlike the young driver, who suddenly smelled of growing concern.

"Very well, gentlemen," Stryker relented. "I'm not authorised to tell you the specifics, but I can say that the team is comprised of people who are like you. People who are… special."

"Immortals?" James asked.

"No, not immortals. But they are mutants."

James gave a snort of disgust. _Mutants._ The phrase had cropped up at some point within the past ten or twenty years, and was used by the media to describe people with seemingly paranormal abilities. A lot of folks didn't believe in mutants; hell, more people believed in _aliens_, which showed just how stupid people could be whenever they got together in large enough groups. But the phrase hadn't died out, and it was tossed around whenever some unnatural event or unexplained killing needed a scapegoat. Once, that scapegoat would have been the Devil, feared and reviled by good, God-fearing people. Now, mutants were slowly taking the Devil's place.

Before he could respond fully, the jeep screeched to a halt, sliding sideways a few feet as the brakes clamped down on the discs of the wheels and sent them skidding over the loose gravel and stone chippings. Inertia tried to carry James forward, but he pulled himself backwards into his seat, helped by Victor's firm hand on his shoulder. His older brother flashed him a toothy smile, his canines peeping down from the top of his mouth over his bottom lip.

In front of the jeep a chain-link fence rose from the ground, reaching a height of some ten or eleven feet. Such a fence would not stop the brothers from getting in or out of the place, which led James to suspect it was used more to mark a boundary than as a form of restraining enclosure. His suspicions were confirmed when, just seconds later, a blinding floodlight came on, illuminating the car and causing both James and Victor to squint away from the harshness of the light. There were voices; somebody had approached the jeep to check the identity of its occupants. The guard seemed satisfied, because a moment later the fence was being pulled back—an automated system, judging by the mechanical groaning James heard—and the vehicle was moving forward. Reluctantly, James opened his eyes, and saw that the floodlight was covered from above by a canopy. That, too, told him something. Whatever this place was, it wasn't meant to be seen easily from the sky. Did Stryker fear enemy planes, or satellites? Or something else entirely?

The driver took the vehicle into a large building which turned out to be a garage. Six other jeeps were parked there, and James could tell by the smell of fresh gas that at least two of them had been used recently, even though their engines were now cool. The jeep rolled into the garage, taking an empty space—there was still room for one more vehicle—and the engine was switched off. For a brief moment, James enjoyed the blessed silence. For as long as he could remember, he'd struggled with loud noises, just as he'd struggled with bright lights and powerful smells. To a man whose senses were heightened, such things were often a curse more often than they were a blessing.

"Gentleman," said Stryker, as he turned in his seat, "welcome to Bunker Five."

Neither James nor Victor bothered asking what that meant. Government departments were prone to giving stupid code-names to things. Bunker Five probably wasn't its actual designation, and James knew that there would most likely be no record of this place on any official file.

"Thank you, Parsons. You're dismissed," the Major said to the driver. The young man saluted and then beat a stately retreat, his worried scent lingering behind in the car even when he himself was gone from the garage. "So, shall we meet the rest of the team?"

"Lead on," Victor spoke up, and James nodded.

Stryker led them away from the vehicle pool and towards a solid-looking door. An access card was removed from a chain around his neck, and run through the card-scanner. A light on the scanner turned green; access granted. James glanced to his brother, saw the interested speculation on Victor's face, and smiled to himself. Victor had always had a fascination with electric lights. They hadn't been invented when the men had been boys, growing up in the untamed wilds of Canada.

Inside the bunker there were, of course, corridors. Neatly-kept, straight-lines, all very regulation. The base smelt of soap and disinfectant and hot food. James' stomach rumbled at the last smell, and he realised he hadn't eaten for about thirty hours. Soldiers often went hungry, and in the day leading up to this moment, James had been too busy fighting and being executed by firing squad to find himself some decent grub. Traitors and killers were not afforded the rites of a last meal, and since being freed from the Viet prison by Stryker, the only chance James had had to eat was on the plane back to America. Unfortunately, his stomach was always very tender when flying. It was probably a good thing he hadn't eaten since the day before, otherwise he might have lost the contents of his stomach halfway across the Pacific.

"So where's the team?" Victor asked, as Stryker led them past a number of closed doors.

Stryker glanced at his watch. "Twenty o'eight… free time. They'll be in the rec room. And yes, before you ask, I'm taking you there now."

Rec room? What kind of military facility _was_ this? As far as James knew, a soldier's preferred method of recreation was getting drunk, but he couldn't smell any alcohol in this place. No scent of malted barley, no fruity smell of hops… not even the sharp odour of a home-made moonshine still. He was, he realised, probably going to hate this place. He liked alcohol not for its taste, but for its ability to help him forget. Or to at least blur the sharp edges off the darker memories stored in his mind.

There were no more questions as the brothers followed Stryker down the corridor. On occasion, James heard the sound of booted feet marching at a half-step pace, but the first indication he had that anybody _other_ than soldiers were on the base was the sound of music pulsing from a pair of double-doors that Stryker approached with that same cursed smell of calmness. The doors opened at his touch, and he held one of them to allow the brothers to enter.

The rec room was not what James had been expecting. There were chairs and tables, and a grille-bar in one corner that had been shut down for the night, the appliances switched off and already cold. Another corner of the room was dedicated to gym equipment; there were two treadmills facing out to the rest of the room, a bench and a set of free weights, dumbbells and barbells both. A tall, mountain of a man, bigger even than Victor, was benching four hundred pounds and had barely even broken a sweat. A third corner of the room held weapons stands and lockers, and a variety of training dummies, most of which were riddled with bullets. An olive-skinned man was seated at a table next to one of the lockers, and he had a gun dismantled into pieces all over the table so that he could clean it thoroughly. Looked like a pistol of some sort, but James would be the first to admit he wasn't a whizz with guns. He knew enough to shoot and clean whatever weapons whichever army he was fighting for put in his hands, but when it came down to the crunch, he preferred to use his own natural weapons every time. Guns were so… impersonal. So cold. Gunpowder always left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

There was a TV in the last corner of the room, and it changed channel frequently, seemingly without input from anyone. The leather sofas in front of it were empty, but three men were sitting at a round table, a set of cards and chips spread between them. One of the men was black, but skin colour didn't bother Logan, and it didn't bother Victor either. Black men, white men, mutants, humans… people were people, regardless of skin colour or 'special' abilities. The other two men were white, and one of them seemed quite young, early to mid twenties at most. He had a small, wiry frame, and even from across the room, James could smell how tense he was. The remaining man was taller, more solidly built, but that was all James could see of him, because his back was to the door. When he spoke, though, there was a familiar lilt to his words.

"Well hello, ladies," the man said, glancing at the cards he'd just been dealt and now held casually in his hand. _So, a fellow Canadian._ James shook his head. The man held only a two and a six between his fingers; no queens at all. But it was enough to make the black man and the scrawny man smell a little more cautious.

"I hate to interrupt rec time," Stryker said, stepping into the room and leaving James and Victor to follow, "but we have visitors."

All activity stopped. The man on the bench halted with his barbell held high above his head, his triceps bulging from the effort of holding the weight still. The three at the table lowered their cards and turned their attention to the newcomers. But it was the man with the disassembled gun who moved first. He stood up and took a few steps forward, running his brown eyes over the brothers, taking a measure of them. His lips curled at one corner, a smile or a sneer, and a scent tickled James' nose; amusement. Not from Victor, this time.

"New recruits, Major?" the man asked. Then he openly smirked. "Or just practice?"

Victor growled, a low rumble in his throat, and James gave him a small shake of the head, a glance of warning to tell him not to let his anger get the better of him. He could tell that Victor didn't like this man's attitude, and he couldn't blame him. They hadn't come all this way to be put down by some kid young enough to be James' great, great, great-grandson.

"Potentials," Stryker replied. Though he didn't say potential _what_. "Everybody, this is James Howlett and Victor Creed. James, Victor, meet the team. The hot-shot with the gun is David North. Over on the weights is Fred Dukes. Don't worry, he can hold that for hours yet. And here we have John Wraith, Wade Wilson and Chris Bradley," Stryker said, gesturing to the black man, the tall man and the scrawny man in turn.

"You guys forget how to shower?" Wade Wilson asked. "Or do you do that whole mud-bath thing for fun? I hear it can do wonders for your skin. There's women who pay hundred of dollars to go to health spas and have that stuff plastered all over their faces. I bet—"

"Can it, Wade," Stryker said, cutting off the tirade.

James glanced down at himself, and then at Victor. Of course, they'd just been pulled out of a war zone. After being shot by a firing squad. With no chance to get changed into fresh clothes. Their shirts were riddled with bullet holes, though there was no dried blood caking them; only mud, which had gone stiff when it had dried. But that was war for you. None of these boys looked like they'd even seen a war on TV, much less experienced one in real life. Though on second glance, he thought perhaps the big guy by the weight—Fred Dukes—might have seen his share of military action. He had a soldierly look about him.

"Yessir, canning it," Wade replied, leaving a short silence that was filled with the sound of a gun being rapidly put back together. In the blink of an eye, David North had his pistol whole again, and holstered at his hip. James heard another low rumble from Victor; this one came from lower down, in his chest.

"Well," Stryker said, clapping his hands once as if he'd just done something amazing that needed recognition. The scrawny man at the poker table jumped a little at the sound. "Why don't I leave you men to get to know each other a little? James, Victor, I'll have a couple of guards waiting for you in the corridor. We've got rooms for you for the night, so you can wash up, get into fresh clothes, and then tomorrow we can have a tour of the facility. Until then, have a talk with the team. I'm sure you'll be pleased with what you hear."

Stryker retreated, which left another silence. James was now acutely aware that all eyes in the room were upon him. And upon Victor, too. But he felt their gazes keenly, and he didn't like it. Their eyes were cold, scrutinising, full of unspoken judgements. Though he tried to stop it, his own gaze went to that of the gun-slinger, David North, and he met the man's appraising stare. The tension in the air was palpable, invading all his senses, smelling like the prickly wariness of two wolf-packs circling around each other. It settled on his skin, choking his pores, invading his brain as he inhaled the scent, which made him angry. He didn't like the smell of tension, and Victor liked it even less. Already, the older brother's lips were pulling back into a wordless snarl. The animal which writhed inside of James, trying to break free, was already at the surface of Victor's mind. It always had been.

Finally, Fred Dukes put down his impossibly heavy barbell and stood up, ambling over to the doors with an easy long stride. He towered a head higher than both James and Victor, and gave them a crazy little smile as he looked down at them.

"So, you're freaks like us, huh?" Fred asked.

And just like that, the tension dissipated. The three at the table relaxed; except for the scrawny kid, who still seemed a little tense. Probably his natural state, James realised.

"We might be freaks," Victor said, squaring off to Fred, though James could smell no genuine animosity from him. "But we're nothing like you."

"True enough," Wade spoke up. "We're considerably cleaner, for a start. Seriously, where did Stryker find you guys? The middle of the jungle?"

"Something like that," James replied, keeping Victor in view from the corner of his eye. Just because he didn't smell angry, didn't mean he wouldn't react to the taller, more-muscled Fred Dukes. Victor could be… unpredictable, at times.

"What can you do?" David North asked. He still looked smug for some reason. James felt every hair on his body rise. Some people just rubbed him the wrong way, and David North was _definitely_ one of those people.

"We can fight," Victor said, running his eyes up and down Fred Dukes' body. "And we don't die."

The black man—John Wraith, James recalled—gave a quiet snort. "Everybody dies."

"We don't," James told him.

"A challenge, then," David North said, with another unpleasant smile. Victor immediately transferred his attention from the hulking Dukes to North, and growled angrily. "Try it, mud-boy," said North. His fingers hovered over his holster. "I'd drop you before you got two paces."

"I'd listen to him, if I were you," the small guy, Chris Bradley, spoke up. "He's a quick draw."

"Bet I'm quicker," said Victor. "And a lot harder to kill."

"Oh, we're placing bets?" asked Wade. He fished around in his pocket, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. It was American currency, confirming to James that he was indeed in the US, and not Canada. Well that was just bloody great. "Twenty on Zero."

"Zero?" James asked.

"Agent Zero," North spoke up. "My code-name."

"Ooh, 'agent.' Impressive," Victor said with a sarcastic grin that showed off his elongated canines. "Must make you feel all big and important, _Agent_."

It took only a split second for North to draw his weapon and have it trained on Victor's heart. But he didn't pull the trigger, and Victor laughed. Only James knew why. If the firing squad hadn't been able to drop Victor by riddling his body with bullets, a single pistol certainly wouldn't do the job.

"What about the rest of you?" James asked the group. "Do you all have stupid code-names as well?"

John Wraith looked a little sheepish, then spoke up. "_Kestrel_. But I don't care much for it. I prefer John."

Chris Bradley nodded. "They code-named me _Bolt_, but I don't like mine all that much either. Everyone just calls me Bradley."

"Let me guess," said Victor, glancing first at Dukes and then at Wilson. "Big-foot, and Big-mouth?"

"No, fortunately we escaped the horror of being given dire government code-names," Wilson said, whilst Dukes looked to be still considering a suitable retort. "It's Wade. Just Wade. And Fred. Just Fred. Heheh. Just. But what about you guys? You're going to need code-names if you join us, right? Hmm, what about Vicky and Jimmy?"

"Only my brother gets to call me Jimmy," James said, throwing a glare at the younger man just to get his point across. "You can call me Logan, if you want to call me anything. And we haven't decided if we're joining you yet."

"Why 'Logan'?" asked John.

"It's an inside joke."

"And you really can't die?" asked Bradley. He seemed to be coming out of his shell a little more, and smelled less of nerves and tension.

"I can prove it. Got a knife?"

"Uh, no?"

"I do," said Wade. He lifted something from the seat beside him, brandishing a wickedly-sharp katana. "Just something I keep close to hand for emergencies."

"Nice blade," James said, eyeing it appreciatively. "Where'd you get it?"

"A hardware store in Iowa. Had to battle a robot ninja for it. Managed to take his head off with a chainsaw and kept his sword as a memento."

"Ninjas don't use samurai swords," James pointed out. "And robots don't have gender."

"Touché."

When no further answer on the origin of the blade was forthcoming, James stepped forward, closed his hand around the cutting edge of the blade, and slid his hand down it. A single trickle of blood ran down the edge, and James held up his hand, revealing a long, clean slice in his skin. Within seconds his flesh had knitted itself back together, and there was not a single scratch on him.

"Oh, that's just great," Wade said, looking at the blood trickling down the sword. "Do you have any idea what blood does to the iron in a sword? Why don't you just sweat all over it whilst you're at it, too? Gah." He wandered off towards the kitchen, mumbling to himself about finding a clean enough rag to polish the sword with.

"Now _that_ is cool," said Bradley, looking at James' hand with excitement in his eyes. "So you have super-healing?"

"And these," said James. He concentrated on his hands, preparing himself for that brief blossom of pain, and three long claws of hard bone slid out from between the joints of his fingers, extending to a length of about twelve inches. The eyes of both Bradley and John Wraith went wide with surprise. North looked on with mild disdain, whilst Fred cocked his head and examined James' claws. From the kitchen, the sound of Wade talking to himself could be heard.

"Super-healing isn't all we can do," Victor said, his own claws extending over an inch from the tips of every finger and thumb. Had he not been wearing thick army boots, his long toenails would have been visible, too.

"So," James said. "We already know that Mr Agent over there is quick on the draw. What about the rest of you? Fair's fair."

"I got this thing I can do," said Fred, from behind the brothers. "I can make myself go real heavy, so nothing can move me."

"Super-density, the Bunker Five scientists call it," explained Wraith. "They tried driving a jeep into him, at sixty miles an hour. Fastest way I ever seen of wrecking a good car is driving it into Fred Dukes. He's not only super-dense, but super strong. He's also got a pretty thick skin… in more ways than one."

Fred nodded, and Bradley spoke up.

"I don't have any sort of super-speed or super-strength, but I can manipulate electrical fields."

James glanced at the TV. "That was you."

"Yep. And this." Bradley narrowed his eyes and the lights in the room began to dim, until they were in total darkness. James' hearing and sense of smell automatically sharpened, to adjust for his lack of vision.

"Damnit, Bradley," Wade called from the kitchen. "I told you, I don't do any of that kinky in-the-dark shit. I'm a lights-on guy all the way."

The lights sprang back to life, temporarily blinding James, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision, shaking his head to rid it of remaining shadows. When his eyes adapted to the light, he looked at Bradley anew. Sure, the guy was about a hundred pounds wet through, but if he could manipulate electrical fields… Jesus, he could bypass the security in every bank across the country. Hell, he'd probably have no problem with the security on this base. Clearly, then, he was here by his own choice. It would be hard to keep a man like that prisoner.

"What about you, John?" said James. "What's your mutant power?"

Suddenly, John disappeared from his seat, and reappeared in the blink of an eye, standing upon one of the treadmills. Then he was gone again, and back in his original seat.

"Teleportation, mostly. I can go metres or miles, and very little can keep me out."

James nodded. Suddenly, this 'team' was beginning to make sense. Bradley and Wraith to bypass security. Zero to handle the firearms. Fred to do the heavy lifting. And now James and Victor, to do what they did best; fighting anybody left standing after the rest of the team had opened the doors.

"What about you?" he asked Wade, who was returning from the kitchen.

"Me? I'm like you, only younger, cleaner, and without the crazy cat claws." Wade offered a grin.

"And you have a super-sized ego, too," Victor said.

"I just tell it like it is." The katana started to move in Wade's hands, becoming a blur of flashing silver within the space of a second. It moved so fast that even James' sharp eyes couldn't keep track of it, and the display ended with Wade performing a backwards somersault, sheathing the sword inside a previously unseen saya fastened across his back the moment his feet touched the ground again. "Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all night," he said, affecting a bow to an impressed imaginary audience.

James looked to his brother, and Victor gave the slightest nod. Yeah, maybe this place was somewhere they could fit in. Somewhere they could be themselves, and not have to worry about pretending to be normal. A place they could finally call home.

All it needed now was a bar.


	2. Stryker's Offer

No I in Team

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_"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. __When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.__" —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_2. Stryker__'s Offer_

**Location: Bunker Five, Secret Weapon X Facility**  
**Somewhere in the United States of America**  
**13:00 HRS**

Eighteen hours after arriving at Bunker Five, James had washed, changed into clean clothes provided by Stryker's people—which just _happened_ to be his exact size—and had been fed a hearty breakfast. Those three little acts made him feel about ninety percent more human than he had the night before, when he'd been tired, tense and hungry. Now, the animal within slumbered, content that it had been fed and allowed a chance to sleep for eight hours without having to worry about waking up in the bottom of a trench being riddled by stray Viet bullets.

He could sense the same sort of peace settling over Victor, too. Safe places were a rare commodity, to be treasured until they had to be abandoned. Bunker Five was certainly safe, but that safety came with a price, and it wasn't a price James was sure he wanted to pay. Not yet. He still valued his freedom too much to sign it away on a dotted line for basic creature comforts.

"What did you think of the training you saw?" Stryker asked. He opened his office door, admitting the brothers into the spacious, windowless room, and then took a seat behind his desk. When he invited both men to sit in the chairs at the front of the desk, they did.

James thought back to earlier that morning. Stryker's tour of the base left no stone unturned. He'd shown them state of the art training facilities, an excellent medical room, the communications equipment, security lockers, on-site barracks for the normal soldiers and extensive outdoor practice areas, mimicking both urban and rural battlefields. Today's 'training' had consisted of two teams, playing a classic game of capture-the-flag. Team one had consisted of David 'Agent Zero' North as Red Team leader, with Fred Dukes on his side, against John 'Kestrel' Wraith, the Blue Team leader, followed by Chris 'Bolt' Bradley and Wade Wilson.

Of course, the game was a classic, but mutant powers gave it a special twist. Because of John's teleportation ability, Zero set himself to guard the Red flag, practically sitting on top of it, and sent Fred to retrieve Blue Team's flag. Three against two didn't seem fair at first, but as Logan watched, he realised that the teams were actually very evenly matched. Each one of them had been armed with paintball guns—because you couldn't have your prized mutant soldiers actually shooting _real_ bullets at each other; they might actually cause some damage—and had also been allotted a weapon of his choice. Zero stuck with the semi-automatic paintball pistols, and seemed to scorn any weapon that might bring him in to a mêlée. Fred Dukes, meanwhile, had chosen a grenade launcher. In-keeping with the non-lethal tone of the game, it only fired paint grenades, but a paint hit to the body counted as a kill, and the grenades were not as easy to avoid as bullets.

Wade Wilson's weapons were a pair of wooden katanas; he didn't even seem to realise he had a gun at all. He could move the katanas so fast that they intercepted incoming paint bullets, sometimes deflecting them back to their source, which meant Fred had to move around whenever he was shooting at Wade. John Wraith had opted to upgrade his smaller paintball pistols to a full rifle, and settled in to assault Zero's position, hoping to overwhelm Red Team's leader through sheer force. Chris Bradley, who was Blue Team's flag-keeper, had two metal rods as his weapons, which at first had confused James, because Bradley didn't seem the type of guy to go wading into the middle of a mêlée. The purpose of the iron rods became apparent, however, when Fred managed to slip past Wade and make a run for the Blue flag. Bradley planted both metal rods in the ground, and focused his attention on them. James had both felt and _smelled_ the static in the air, right before Fred ran headlong into an invisible forcefield and bounced back off it.

"Electro-magnetic barriers," Stryker had commented to James and Victor with a self-satisfied smile. The three of them were watching from behind a concrete observation shelter. "Taxing for Bradley to create and maintain, but capable of stopping men and bullets."

"Impressive," James had replied, feeling a new surge of appreciation for the smaller man's power.

Now, sitting in Stryker's office, the Major's eyes on his, he realised the officer was waiting for a response, and cast his mind back to the question. Before he could think of a reply, however, Victor spoke up.

"They're children, playing at child games. Balls of paint? Capture the flag? Have any of those boys even seen a single bar-fight?"

"Bradley's pretty green," Stryker admitted candidly, "but the others have all seen action in one form or another. I'll be honest with you Victor, James. The men I've assembled are competent enough at what they do, but they don't fully understand, yet, what it means to work together as a team. These 'games' they play aren't just to teach them tactics and get them thinking like soldiers, but to help them form bonds with each other. Like the kind of bond that you two share. I need you. Both of you, for your skills. But it's more than that. I can only train them to a certain extent; they need somebody who is like them in order to complete their training and lead them."

Victor laughed heartily. "You want us to command your team of mutants?"

"No." Stryker subjected Victor to a long, penetrating stare that made Victor pull his teeth back and bare his fangs in a half-snarl, half-smile. "I couldn't give you a command post like that, Victor. Not after what you did in Vietnam. A pardon, yes, but not a promotion. My head would roll if I even attempted it. But you, James… you have more experience fighting wars than any man I know, and more experience of being a mutant than anyone else on this base. I've read your file. I know you can keep a cool head in a hot situation. Join us. Lead my team. I'll make sure you're amply rewarded."

"Speaking of rewards," said Victor, "you mentioned something about 'special privileges.' What does that involve?"

Stryker shrugged. "It's quite simple. Everything you could ever need or want will be provided. Food? Not a problem. Women? Easily done. Want to train with a new weapon? We'll make it happen. Learn to pilot a helicopter or a plane? We'll show you how."

James could see the hungry gleam in his brother's eyes, so he spoke up before Victor could jump in and accept the offer for the both of them.

"Fine words, Major," he said, leaning forwards and resting his arms against Stryker's desk, purposely letting the man see his hands, reminding him of the claws which lay beneath, "but all you've given us so far is the icing. What about the cake? What is this 'special' team of yours supposed to _do_?"

"Whatever is necessary to protect and preserve our great country." Stryker's words were immediate and automatic, like some television advert spurted out by the American propaganda machine. "I'm not going to lie to you, James. In a world of black and white, Team X, as it's been code-named by the military, will be a shade of grey. For now, its activities will include anything and everything that regular soldiers can't handle. Situations which are too dangerous for non-mutants to go into. That could range from everything between infiltrating high-profile drug cartels, to securing sensitive information about the Soviets. Everything we do will be strictly classified, and only a few select generals will have access to any information regarding Team X and its members." Stryker smiled. "Plausible deniability, you understand."

"I understand. It's black-ops."

"Is that a hint of distaste I hear in your voice?"

"Probably," James said, feeling dirty just thinking about it. "I'm a soldier. A fighter. I'm not a spy, and I don't want to be one. I don't want some ridiculous code-name like 'Agent Howlett' and a life of luxury to make me go soft."

"I'm not asking you to be a spy, James," said Stryker. "I'm asking you to lead men. Train them, be responsible for them, and ultimately make sure they know how to follow my orders. In return I offer you, and your brother, a safe place to stay when you're not on missions, the freedom to operate without the restrictions tied around regular soldiers, and a good salary with a generous benefits package. I'm giving you the chance to make a difference, James. A chance to help protect your country from all threats, whether external or internal. A chance to be with others like you, who won't look at your abilities with fear and won't heap scorn onto you for what you are. A chance to be who you were meant to be. What do you say?"

At that moment, James felt himself torn. Opportunities like this were rare, and accepting Stryker's offer would mean accepting a completely new way of life. No longer running, hiding, fighting simply to survive. Now, he could have a higher goal to aim for. But it would also mean accepting the leash, and he wasn't entirely sure who was holding the leash. His first thought had been the US military, but the things Stryker spoke of—spying on the Soviets, protecting against 'both internal and external threats'—well, that had the smell of the CIA all over it. Very confusing, and not at all reassuring.

He glanced to Victor, saw his brother give a very slight nod. No surprises there. Though the animal was strong in Victor, and he could be perfectly happy roaming the wilderness, hunting and killing his food, he was also quick to see opportunities which might prove beneficial. It was at Victor's suggestion that they joined the ranks of soldiers fighting in 'nam. By that time, James had had enough of wars, but Victor wanted more. He always wanted more.

Perhaps it _would_ be nice to work black-ops for a change. On a battlefield, being covert was not a large factor in the success of a mission. Open warfare relied more on superior numbers and superior fire-powers. Attack, defend, retreat… a familiar dance, and one that he had done countless times over his hundred and thirty or so years. War didn't change. Oh, the faces changed, and the technology changed, but once you knew the steps, you could dance that dance with your eyes closed. At least if he was working black-ops, he wouldn't have to watch wave after wave of men slaughtered as they charged valiantly to their deaths across the battle-field. That one had gotten old around No Man's Land, 1914.

James looked Stryker straight in the eyes, meeting the Major's steely gaze. "If I do this—if _we_ do this—there's something I want."

"Name it," Stryker said, no hesitation or delay.

"A bar. In the rec room. Fully stocked at all times. I like to have a drink when I'm relaxing."

The Major hesitated. "Our studies have shown that alcohol has a negative effect on both physical and mental performance, even in mutants. We want Team X to be at the top of their game, not half hammered when they go out on missions."

"There'll be no drinking in the three days before any mission. And I'll make sure they don't drink too much when off-duty. Anybody who doesn't know his limits will have to answer to me," James said with conviction. "Lead from the front and by example, right?"

There was a moment of silence as Stryker considered his request. Then the man stood up, and offered his hand, first to James, then to Victor. "Welcome aboard, Captain. You too, Victor."

James shook the man's hand, but he knew it wouldn't be that simple. There would be papers to sign. Non-disclosure, data-protection, and all sorts of other fine-print that he cared little for. Now, though… it was done. For better or worse, he was a part of Team X. And not just a part of them, but their leader.

"So what now?" Victor asked. "We get uniforms and new tags?"

"Indeed," Stryker agreed. "Over the next few days, we'll sort everything out for you. Of course, you'll have to undergo medical exams, so we know exactly what we're investing in, but all standard procedure. I'll have uniforms sent to your rooms, and tags cut and stamped as soon as all the t's have been crossed and the i's have been dotted." He glanced at his watch. "For now, I think you should join the team in the rec room; they should be sitting down to lunch at any moment. Oh, and I'd be grateful if you didn't mention your promotion to them just yet, James. I'd like to announce it later tonight, before lights-out."

James nodded and stood, Victor following him. He didn't know whether Stryker expected him to salute, but as he wasn't wearing a uniform or tags, he didn't bother. There would be time for standing on ceremony later. Right now, there was lunch to be had.

o - o - o - o - o

The delicious aroma of hot food wound its way through the corridors of Bunker Five, and though it had only been six hours since he'd tucked into a cooked breakfast of bacon, sausages, eggs and toast, James felt his mouth watering. Fighting in the trenches, a man had to subsist off rations, and he was lucky if a dead pigeon fell from the sky—as long as it was an _enemy_ pigeon, of course—because there was good eating on a pigeon, if you'd gone hungry long enough. That sort of deprivation taught a man to appreciate the simple things in life, such as a plate full of hot, cooked food which hadn't come from a can and didn't taste like old boots.

Even if he hadn't known where the rec room was, his nose would have taken him to it. He could tell, whilst he was still three or four corridors away, that today's lunch was steak. The rich smell of it permeated the air, coupled with a weaker smell of vegetables; carrots, potatoes, peas, onions… and gravy. Mouth-watering, meaty-flavoured gravy. He could almost taste it.

When he led Victor into the rec room, he found the majority of the team seated and just about to tuck into their food. There were three empty spaces at the table, and James noticed Fred standing by the kitchen counter, apparently flirting with a pretty little blonde thing wearing an apron and a small white hat. Her smiles were coy, her eyes come-hither; she clearly enjoyed the attention.

"Hey boys," said John Wraith, when he saw the brothers, "we saved you seats."

"Thanks," said James. He took the chair beside Bradley, leaving the chair beside John for Victor, and the one beside Zero for Fred.

"So you got the grand tour, huh?" asked John.

James nodded, and eyed up another cook—this one a man—as he approached the table with two more plates laden with food. One was deposited in front of James, and the other in front of Victor. Each plate held three steaks and a small mountain of vegetables. Victor tucked in immediately, but James glanced to the dark-skinned teleporter.

"I'd start on the steaks, if I were you," John said quietly, his voice not carrying beyond the table. "If Fred sees even a moment of hesitation, he'll have that steak from under your nose faster than you can say 'medium rare.'"

Bradley snickered; he was already halfway through his first steak, though James was surprised the kid could polish off one, much less three.

"The geniuses in the government's covert nutrition department figured out the optimum amount of protein required for an active male's diet, then arbitrarily doubled it for mutants," said Wade, as he stabbed his fork into one of his steaks. "If the team gets any bigger, Stryker will need to add a slaughterhouse to the base facilities."

"What makes you think we're staying?" James asked him.

"Stryker wouldn't be feeding you steak if you hadn't accepted his offer."

"I assume you're to be our new meat-shields?" Zero asked, his eyes narrowed as he watched the brothers eat.

"I think Stryker's going to debrief everyone later," James said evasively. Victor chuckled. From the kitchen, the sound of laughter came, and James glanced at Fred, who was seemingly ignoring his plate in favour of the woman.

"Hey, you two, get a room or something," Wade called. "The rest of us are trying to eat over here."

Fred shot him a quick glare, then said goodbye to the woman and picked up his tray, joining the rest of the team as he slid his large frame into the seat beside Zero. "You're gonna ruin my chances if you keep embarrassing Gina like that," Fred warned.

"James here was just telling us that he and Victor have accepted Stryker's offer," said John, recapping the conversation for his team-mate.

Fred nodded, and sheared off a large slice of steak. "Good. Be nice having someone else on the team who doesn't mind getting their hands dirty."

"You got your tags yet?" Bradley asked.

"Not yet," said Victor. "Stryker mentioned something about a medical, and paperwork. I stopped listening at that point."

Wade grinned wickedly. "Let me give you a piece of advice for your medical. Whatever you do, don't clench. Nurse Watson has huge man-hands, and she can grip like a vice."

John Wraith shook his head, and suddenly looked a little less hungry. Bradley and Fred were also grinning, but not Zero. James suspected the man possessed no sense of humour whatsoever, and about as much personality as a shoe. But not an old shoe, all beaten and well-worn, with tell-tale signs of years of care and cobbling; a new shoe, straight from the box, smelling of polish, and uncomfortable to walk in for the first fifteen or twenty miles. In other words, a shoe that was too clean and a pain in the ass—or the heel—to boot.

It was, James decided, time to get to know his team-mates a little better. If he was to lead these men, he needed to know what drove them, and what made them tick. He needed to know how they would react in any given situation, and which of them would need a touch of discipline.

"What did you all do before coming here?" he asked. "And how long have you been in the team?"

"Almost three months," Bradley spoke up first. He toyed with a carrot on his plate for a moment as his eyes glazed with memory, and sure enough, Fred glanced at one of the smaller man's untouched steaks. "I was between jobs, looking for anything that would keep me afloat. I don't know how Stryker found me, or how he knew what I am and what I could do, but he made me the offer, and it was too good to turn down. To be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect, and I didn't think I'd fit in. I mean, me. In the military? My mom, may she rest in peace, would never have believed it. Sometimes, I can barely even believe it. But it's not that bad, here. Stryker pushes us hard during training, but he treats us fair. It's better than anything I got out there."

Wraith nodded, agreeing with that sentiment, then eyed the brothers as he spoke. "Dukes and I got here around the same time, almost a year ago now."

"I was in the army," said Fred. "Figure Stryker heard about me when I stopped a tank from crossing my company's lines."

"How'd you stop it?" James asked him.

"I stood in front of it."

"Oh."

"I got a medal for it, but the rest of my company never looked at me the same, after that. Stryker's offer seemed like a no-brainer. Can't say there's been as much action as I was expecting, but if the military want to pay me for sitting around on my ass for eight hours a day and occasionally shoot guys with paintballs, who am I to complain?"

"What about you, John?" said James.

"I been a lot of things," Wraith replied evasively. "When Stryker found me, I was taking some time out, doing work on a ranch in Wyoming. Figured out my teleporting was a good way of rounding up horses. I didn't wanna come at first, but Stryker promised I'd be impressed. Like Fred said, we haven't done much so far, other than some training and tests of our abilities. Sometimes I miss the wide open plains, but I make three times as much being here as I did on that ranch, and I have a feeling that the team's now complete, so I expect things will start getting a little more interesting around here now."

"What about you?" James asked Wade.

"Glad you asked. You see, in my real life, I'm actually an international movie-star. But, disillusioned with the fame and fortune and masses of women throwing themselves at my feet, I decided to leave it all behind. I travelled around the Far East, and within five years, became a master of every single martial arts form I could find. For a while I let the wind carry me as it would, hiring my services out as a mercenary, and from time to time I was even known to take a bounty or two. But sometimes, a guy needs something a little more stable than the life of a merc, so six months ago, when Stryker found me and told me he needed an actor to play the part of a good-looking, wise-cracking mutant soldier, I read the script then jumped at the chance. Can't say I particularly miss the fame, or even the fortune, but the masses of women? Yeah, I definitely miss those. Living in a bunker full of men for six months will do that to you."

"Is there one part of what you said that's even remotely true?" asked James, as Victor scoffed at Wade's tale.

Wade looked him in the eyes, his face poker-straight. "Every single word."

James shook his head, and turned his questioning gaze to David North.

"Four years," said Zero. "That's how long I've been working with Stryker. As for what I did before that… I'll let you know if it ever becomes part of your business."

"Let me ask you a question, Zero. When you were little, were you one of those kids who was picked on in the playground?"

Zero merely looked at James, eyes full of cold disdain, and for a moment, James wondered if North would be foolish enough to start something. But then the door of the rec room opened, and his nose was tickled by the scent of perfumed soap. Turning his head and breaking eye contact with Zero, he saw a woman wearing a nurse's uniform step into the room carrying a tray between both hands.

"Good afternoon, gentleman," the woman said, offering both James and Victor—as newcomers—a welcoming smile. "Your dessert is ready, courtesy of the medical team."

She began putting small plastic cups on the table in front of every man, her copper-haired head bobbing up and down with each cup she placed. James picked his up, and saw four different coloured pills inside it. He turned, to ask her what they were for, but the door was already swinging closed behind her, the clicking of her heeled shoes growing quieter as she disappeared down the corridor.

"What's this?" he asked aloud, waiting for one of the team to answer.

Wade smiled, and picked a red pill out of his own plastic cup, setting it on the table. "This pill makes you larger." He then selected a blue pill, and placed it next to the red one. "And this one makes you small." He seemed to sense that James didn't believe him. "Go ask Alice, if you don't believe me."

"Who's Alice?" asked Victor. Bradley snickered quietly, but said nothing.

Wade ignored the question, and set a yellow pill on the table. "This is the one they use to control our minds."

"And the green one?" James queried. He didn't believe a word Wade said, of course.

"Haven't figured the green pill out yet," said Wade, turning the small green capsule around in his fingers. "Possibly a placebo."

Wraith gave an amused snort, his dark eyes scanning the possibly-former-mercenary's face. "You're so full of shit, Wade." Then, to James, "They're supplements. Vitamins and minerals. Do you think any of us would take them, if they did any of the crap that Wade claims?"

Wade winked at James, then downed all four pills at once, swallowing them without water. "Unless the green one is a narcotic. You know, get us addicted to taking them. Ever wonder what would happen if we just stopped?"

"Yeah, we'd get one hell of a nagging off Stryker."

Around the table, the rest of the team took their pills too. James glanced at Victor, who merely shrugged and swallowed each pill in turn. James followed suit, because he could hardly object to vitamin supplements. He didn't think Stryker would be stupid enough to try to poison his men with something dangerous. No, they were far too valuable as assets to be messed with in that way.

Once the pills were out of the way, the meal continued. Bradley seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts, and though he was sitting with the group, he didn't seem like a part of it. Not yet. That was the first thing James would change, once he'd been given leadership of the team. Every man needed to feel like he belonged. Every man needed to have a place. He wouldn't leave anybody behind.

Sitting opposite Bradley, Wade chattered tirelessly, to himself, or to anyone who would listen. It was mostly nonsense stuff; occasional comments about his life as a mercenary, and speculation about what might be in the green pill, but there was little James could do about that. The lies about his past seemed harmless enough, though he did wonder if Wade truly _believed_ the things he said.

Like Bradley, Fred was quiet, but mostly because he was concentrating completely on his food. He didn't speak as much of the others, and James suspected that if it weren't for his mutant powers, he'd be a reliable and competent rank-and-file soldier, the type of unexcitable man who could be given a command and trusted to follow it.

John Wraith, sitting opposite Fred, seemed to have regained his appetite, and had tucked back into his lunch. But even though he gave the appearance of concentrating on his food, his eyes were never still. He was a watcher, James realised. A man who sat back and let others do the talking so that he could watch them and judge them for himself. Not a bad trait, and Wraith _seemed_ personable enough, but James resolved to watch him closely, just in case the friendly nice-guy thing was just an act.

Zero had the seat beside Wraith, and like Bradley, seemed to set himself apart from the group. But where Bradley did it with introversion, Zero did it by holding himself with an an air of aloof indifference which did not invite conversation. He, like Wraith, watched everybody as he ate, but there was a coldness around his eyes which James did not like.

Beside James, Victor sat polishing off his place. He, as always, smelled like a roiling soup of barely concealed emotions, a taut spring of restrained violence that might snap at any moment. Victor's animal instincts were strong, and he sometimes struggled to control them. At times, it seemed that he didn't _want_ to control them. That he wanted to give himself over to the animal side, and revel in fighting and killing. But that would have to change, if Victor wanted to make this life worked. He couldn't go rampaging during sensitive missions. He would have to learn control.

James looked at them all. A scrawny introvert, a loud-mouthed mercenary, a slow but dependable soldier, a teleporting jack-of-all trades, an arrogant sharp-shooter and half-animal–half-man with a vicious violent streak. This was what he had to work with. This was his team. And from now on, they would be his life.

o - o - o - o - o

Major William Stryker finished writing his report, and filed it away in the cabinet behind his desk. He'd have it wired over to his superiors in the morning. It wasn't urgent enough to worry about now.

He turned back to his desk, his eyes falling upon the picture inside the wooden frame. A smile curled the corners of his mouth as he looked at the people in the image. His wife, Sarah, looked as beautiful in the frame as she did in person. Her long brown hair tumbled down her shoulders, her smiling face lit up by some inner radiance. In her arms she carried Jason; he, like his mother, had a mop of brown hair, and he grabbed a fistful of his mother's locks in his still-chubby toddler hand. That picture had been taken five years ago; Jason was seven, now, and top of his class in school.

His family. His pride and joy, even though he didn't get to see them as often as he liked. He would do anything for them—anything at all. They were why he had accepted this assignment. How could he sit idly with his family, knowing that their very way of life was under threat? Communists weren't the only enemy faced by the American people, but they were one of the oldest, and the largest. There was no open declaration of war between the United States and Russia, but there didn't need to be. The Cold War had started the moment World War 2 had ended.

When his superior officers had first told him, five years ago, that he'd be working within a 'unique' area of the military with 'special' weapons, his first thought had been chemicals. Nuclear weapons possessed by both world super-powers were just for show, designed to keep either side from ever considering using them. Chemical weapons, however, were an entirely different beast. You could employ a chemical weapon to target a small area. It could be done covertly, with no indication of where the weapons had come from.

But the world of chemical weapons research was not to be his fate after all. No, the government had something even more controversial in mind: Mutants. People whose genetic code had mutated, either randomly, or due to radiation exposure, or due to the force of evolution. There had always, in the history of the human race, been mutants. People born with too many digits, or not enough; people born with mis-shaped limbs; people born attached to their unseparated twin; people born with degenerative conditions. In the past, mutations had often been devastatingly painful, and often resulted in the death—or ostracism—of those suffering from such flaws.

As humanity had evolved, however, as society had changed, so had the nature of mutation. Yes, some people were still born sick, or with the wrong number or shape of body parts, but it seemed that evolution was getting better at picking favourable traits. It still wasn't perfect, of course. Some mutants still looked like freaks of nature, with weird-coloured skin, or unnatural appendages. The team he had assembled were not those sorts of mutants. They could 'pass' as normal people, as the phrase went. Passing was good. Stryker felt more comfortable around mutants who looked like people. He didn't know if he could work with someone who looked like a lizard, or a cat, or any other sort of beast. That sort of thing just wasn't right.

A knock rang out through his office, originating from his door. Stryker sat down in his chair, and then called, 'Enter.'

The man who stepped into the room was Doctor Cornelius, the lead scientist on the Team X project. Cornelius had been with Stryker right from the start, and seemed to find the mutants thoroughly fascinating, from a genetic point of view.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Major?" Cornelius asked.

"Of course not, Doctor." He'd already noticed the two brown personnel files in the man's hands. "Please come in. Have a seat."

"Thank you." When Cornelius was seated and comfortable, he placed the files on the desk, and slid them across to Stryker. "I've finished my preliminary analysis of our new recruits. I thought you'd want to take a look."

"Yes, indeed." Stryker opened both files side by side, and glanced over the biography info. It had been five days since James and Victor had accepted his offer, and their files had grown considerably in size since then. Medical work-ups, psych-analyses, personal history… everything he needed to know about the two men was at his fingertips. The personal history reports were somewhat incomplete, but that was only to be expected. Both mutants had lived for well over a hundred years already, and written records became less reliable the further back in time they went.

There was a lot of data in the files. Too much for him to absorb immediately. He glanced up at Cornelius. "Give me a summary of what we've got."

"Well, as you already know, subjects Six and Seven"—they were James' and Victor's designations for the medical teams—"are half-brothers, sharing several genetic markers on the Y-chromosome. This in itself is fascinating, as it implies that the tendency for genetic mutation is passed down by the father, rather than the mother."

"Yes, very interesting," Stryker said, though he did not share the doctor's enthusiasm. That information was irrelevant to the Team X program. "What else?"

"Both men are endowed with impressive healing abilities, though it seems subject Six has a slightly faster healing rate than subject Seven. This may be a small trade-off, as when we measured muscle strength, we found that subject Seven was slightly ahead of subject Six. Both men show unnatural bone formations. In the case of subject Six, this manifests as 'claws' which emerge from between his metacarpal bones. I suspect they are vestigial, perhaps intended to be extra fingers that never formed properly. The act of drawing his claws does cause some minor pain, but his body rapidly heals the damage done. Subject Seven does not possess the claws; rather, the individual bones of his fingers are longer than those of a normal man, and he lacks a normal human nail. Instead, the elongated bones serve as a sort of semi-retractable nail. He also possesses the same claw-like nails on his feet." Cornelius nodded at the files. "The, ah, psych team have done very detailed reports, and are included within the files, but most of it is clarification of what was already known about them."

Stryker nodded patiently, waiting for Cornelius to get to the _real_ reason he was here. Not that his information wasn't important; it was just that there were things of _more_ importance. Things which both Stryker and his superiors wanted to know. Rushing Cornelius to that information, however, would only make the man go defensive. Stryker had learnt long ago to let the doctor work at his own pace.

"I'm afraid, sir, that neither of them are viable subjects." Cornelius continued, his hesitancy disappearing as he reeled off the facts. "Their healing factor is simply too great to be overcome by the technology available to us today. Any attempt we make at altering their base coding would trigger an immediate response from the subjects' immune system. The leukocytes would see such alterations as 'alien' cells and destroy them immediately, making any further attempt at manipulation literally impossible."

"A shame. Either one of them would have been promising. Oh well, back to our original plans."

A knock at the door interrupted Stryker before he could continue, and when he called 'enter,' David North strode into the office, exuding confidence. His eyes flickered briefly over Cornelius, but his expression did not change.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realise you had company," said North. "I can come back another time."

"No, it's okay," said Stryker. North wouldn't have come knocking on his door without good reason. "Doctor Cornelius has just finished debriefing me on our new recruits. Doctor, I'll speak with you further in the coming days."

"Yes, of course," Cornelius nodded.

The doctor left, and Stryker invited North to take his place. The mutant declined.

"I prefer to stand, sir."

"You know, Agent Zero, I was expecting you here before this," Stryker said.

North hesitated briefly. "I wasn't going to come at all, sir. I know full well that you don't owe me any explanations."

"But you'd like one anyway." Both a statement and a question.

There was confusion and uncertainty etched into Zero's face, now—barely visible, but there. Tiny cracks beginning to show in his aloof veneer. Well, it wouldn't do to have his most loyal soldier thinking he'd been over-looked.

"Sit down, Zero," he commanded, and waited until the mutant had obeyed. "You want to know why I chose James to lead the team over you. You _need_ to know it." Again, statements more than questions.

"Sir, I've been with you for four years," Zero said. "And I like to think that I've served you well. That I've done everything you've asked of me. Now, to be told I have to follow the instructions of… that man…" Zero left his sentence unfinished. Stryker didn't need to hear any more. Zero's jealousy of the brothers was obvious, and he seemed to feel hurt that Stryker had picked James, instead of him, to lead the team. It was something Stryker could easily put to rights.

"Zero, the reasons I chose James to be the team Captain are three-fold. First of all, I needed to give him some incentive to sweeten the deal. I could see that he was hesitating; I wanted to give him the illusion that he will have some control over his own future. Second, he's got the necessary experience. He's fought in more wars than either of us has heard of, and the rest of the team will follow him because of that experience. And third, you're too valuable to be made Captain."

"Sir?" Confusion on Zero's face, now. Confusion was good. It kept people on their toes. Confused men were more pliable than confident men.

"If a Captain falls on the battle-field, then chaos can quickly take over. I need somebody, a reliable second in command, to step up and take control should that ever happen. Pretty much anybody can lead people, but it takes a truly great man to step in when the chips are down and bring the ship back on course."

"I see," said Zero. The confusion had been replaced by crafty speculation.

"You're the only one on that team who I trust implicitly, Zero," Stryker told him, saying the words he knew the man wanted to hear, and meaning them. "There will always be a Team X, but its membership… well, let's just say that's open to change. And mark my words, Zero, change _will_ come."

Zero nodded, showing that he understood the implications, and Stryker knew the man would never question his decisions again.


	3. Teamwork

No I in Team

* * *

"_In the mountains of truth you will never climb in vain: either you will get up higher today or you will exercise your strength so as to be able to get up higher tomorrow." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_3. Teamwork_

**Location: Outside enemy stronghold**

**11:00 HRS**

The sound of gunfire was like a thousand tiny thunderstorms to James' ears, each pull of the trigger causing a minute crash of booming vibration. Once, he had found the noise grating, but now he was numb to it. A hundred years of fighting in wars had hardened him to the sound of death's herald, just as it had hardened his soul. Now, when he saw men die, he didn't let it touch him. He _couldn't_ let it touch him, because he had a team to lead.

From his position in the shallow trench, just within the tree-line, he surveyed his comrades-in-arms. Over to the right, Dukes and Wraith were hunkered down, taking it in turns to lay cover-fire, drawing the enemy's attention towards them. To the left of the trench, Zero and Wade were picking their moments to pick enemies off, waiting for an enemy soldier to peep out from behind cover whilst looking for Dukes and Wraith. Getting Wade to put down his katanas and pick up a gun hadn't been easy, but the results were worth the hassle. Though he wasn't as good a shot as Zero, he was still a better marksman than anyone else on the team.

In the centre of the trench, Victor was standing beside Bradley, whose gun was silent. The youngest mutant on the team had closed his eyes, extending his mind across the no-man's-land of the open field, searching for electrical circuits to manipulate. James wasn't sure if Bradley's powers would work at this distance, but it was the best chance they had of unlocking the compound doors and getting inside the former Nazi stronghold. The compound itself was an old manor-house, and there were at least thirty armed guards defending it.

Whispers reached his sensitive ears from the left of the trench, though in truth, they only _sounded_ like whispers behind the noise of the gunfire.

"_Why doesn't he mount an assault?" _asked Zero, probably not realising he'd spoken loud enough to be heard by James. Nobody in the team, other than Victor, knew how sensitive James' hearing was.

"_I don't know," _Wade replied, taking a shot at a target and narrowly missing. _"Why don't you go and ask him?"_

"I've found the door access panels!" Bradley shouted, pulling James' attention away from the pair on the left of the trench. He sounded excited, and James suspected he was pleased to be proving his worth to the team. "Just give me another couple of minutes. These access readers aren't like the ones at base. They've got a different security encoding. I need to go carefully."

"Hold the line!" James yelled to the team, as a spray of bullets peppered the mound of dirt in front of Wraith and Dukes. Both men were forced back down into the trench, where they waited for a lull in firing. But the enemy was learning, too. Now they took it in turns to shoot at the trench, providing a constant stream of fire, and they'd figured out that they were being picked off from one end. Now they avoided exposing themselves on that side. Crafty. Very crafty.

Victor peered over the mound and fired his weapon at the soldiers atop the compound, trying to break their concentration and gives Dukes and Wraith a chance to recover.

"_This is ridiculous!"_ James heard Zero say. "_I could clear that compound in thirty seconds. Every moment we sit here, we paint bigger and bigger targets on our own heads." _The sharp-shooter gave a hiss of frustration. _"Screw this. Cover me, I'm going in."_

Before James could even open his mouth to object, Zero had launched himself from the trench and over the mound, running at speed towards the compound gates. His pistols were up, firing with regular precision, and each time he pulled the trigger an enemy body erupted in a spray of crimson red. Zero's actions, his disobedience, stunned the whole team, but they quickly recovered. Wade lay down cover-fire as requested, because there was little else for him to do. Wraith and Dukes, now that they were no longer targets, were free to resume shooting at the compound, and Victor joined in simply because he didn't want to be the only one not having fun.

Thirty seconds after Zero had left the trench, the guns fell silent, and Bradley opened his eyes.

"I've done it! All the doors are open!" he said, with an amazed smile.

James merely growled, ignoring the young man as he pulled himself out of the trench. His entire vision wore a coating of red, and not because of the violence that had been done here. Zero had disobeyed orders, putting not only himself, but the whole team at risk. James was _furious_, and only knew that the rest of the team was following him across no-man's land because he heard them haul themselves out of the trenches, and felt the vibrations of their booted feet as they hurried after him.

Zero waited for him, pistols in hands, a self-satisfied smile on his face. James bunched up his fists, and almost allowed his bone claws to extend from between his knuckles. At the last moment he managed to stop himself. He wanted to punch Zero. Hell, he wanted to _impale_ the idiot. But he couldn't. He was the Captain. He had to behave with more decorum than that.

"What the hell was that, North?!" he demanded, stopping in front of the sharp-shooter. It was all the decorum he could manage right now.

"That was about me saving us half an hour of sitting in a trench being fired at," Zero replied calmly. "Last week you told us that a good defence is a swift and decisive offence."

"When I _want_ an offence, I will _order_ an offence," he growled angrily. Behind, he heard the rest of the team stop a couple of paces away.

"What are you so pissed about? You _know_ I could have taken out those guards as soon as we got here. I don't know why you bothered using that trench. Bradley could have done his work from here just as well."

Again, the bone claws threatened to show, but James held himself back, and took a step closer to Zero, trying to burn a hole in the man's head with the heat of his gaze. When he spoke, it was with quiet fury, but with enough volume to let the rest of the team hear what he was saying. They needed to know why Zero's actions had put them all in danger. They needed to know _why_ James had given the orders he did.

"Did you ever consider the possibility that this field was mined?" he asked, and saw a moment of hesitation in Zero's eyes. "Or that maybe the enemy had placed trip-wires, or pits? I wanted Bradley to work from the trench because he needs to know what it's like to work under fire. He needs to know what it's like to feel that pressure, and feel the bullets breathing down the back of his neck."

"Under fire?" Zero laughed coldly. "Don't you think you're blowing this out of proportion, Logan? This is just a training exercise. There's no real pressure here. There never was."

From the 'former Nazi compound', some two-dozen helmeted heads rose up from behind cover. All of them were spattered with the crimson paint from the balls they'd been shot with. Another layer of paint coated the ground in front of the trench's earth mound. None of the 'enemy' soldiers looked thrilled about witnessing this argument, and they pointedly _didn't_ come down from their hiding places.

"That isn't the point," James said. "How am I to take you into an actual combat zone if you won't follow my orders? My reasons for keeping you back in the trench were sound, but I have no need to explain them to you. Jesus Christ, Zero, you're a soldier, not some goddamn maverick. In fact, that's going to be your new name from now on, until you can prove to me that you're capable of following orders."

"I kinda like 'Maverick,'" Wade spoke up.

"Shut it, Mouth," James growled. Wade had earned himself that particular nickname two days ago, when he'd talked the entire way through one of the training sessions. Turning to the compound, James called out to the soldiers. "You men, get out of there and get cleaned up and restocked. You've got one hour, then we're switching roles." He waited long enough to see a salute from one of the men, then turned back to his own team. "As for the rest of you… understand this. When one of us fails, we all fail. One man's disobedience affects every single one of us. No booze and no TV for three days. And tomorrow we're up an hour early to do laps before training. Now, go and reload your weapons, and stock up on ammo. We have a compound to defend."

There was more than one silent groan from the team, but they knew better than to argue. James didn't like taking away their liberties, but it was one of the few ways he had of punishing them without harming them. He watched as they turned and headed back to the weapons lockers at the side of the field, Zero included. Victor loitered behind, watching his brother with disapproving eyes.

"Bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Harsh?" James asked, setting off after the team. "You know as well as I do that disobedience in a genuine battle situation can cost lives. I'm not going to watch men die because of one idiot's mistakes."

"Maybe not as much a mistake as you think. He's pushing you, you know. Testing how far you'll let him go."

"Then he'll learn that I can push back," James growled.

Victor shrugged, and picked up his pace to amble after the rest of the team. Once more, whisper-like voices reached James' ears.

"_Don't you think you're being a bit hard on the Captain?"_ Wraith asked North.

"_Maybe if he were a better leader, I wouldn't have to question his orders so much."_

"_But Stryker seems to think he's a good enough leader, and something tells me you'd follow _his _orders alright."_

Zero didn't answer that. Instead, he glanced to Wade. _"I suppose you think our new Captain's doing a stand-up job too?"_

Wade gave his paintball rifle a dismissive wave in the air. _"So long as I get to travel to new places, meet new people, and do a lot of killing along the way, I don't care who's calling the shots. Stryker, Logan… makes no difference to me."_

Zero responded with a disgusted sigh, and walked a little faster, putting himself ahead of the group.

An hour later, all weapons had been reloaded, the soldiers had entrenched themselves in the tree line, and Team X was prepared to defend their compound against superior forces. With a few minutes to spare before the start of the next war-game, James lined up the team, ready to brief them on their mission objective.

"Listen up," he said, as he walked along the line, his gaze transferring from the hulking Dukes down to the scrawny Bradley, back up to the statuesque Wade, and then across to Wraith and the newly-appointed Maverick, before back up again to Victor. "This compound has been located by enemy forces. Our orders are to hold it for one hour, to give an evac chopper time to reach us. The chopper will be landing at the rear of the compound, so a few minutes before it's due, I want Victor, Maverick and Bradley to head out to the landing area and make sure it's secure. If the chopper can't land, we can't leave. The rest of us will remain at our posts and lay down suppression fire whilst the chopper lands, and when it touches down we'll fall back to the rendezvous point. Questions? No? Good.

"Time to get ourselves comfortable; an hour is a long time to hold a building against a siege. Split up into three teams; Victor, Maverick, Bradley, you'll take the ground floor windows and the main door. Dukes, you and I will cover the second-floor windows. John, you and Wade have the rooftop. I'll signal when the chopper's inbound, at which point the three on the ground floor will head out back to do what needs to be done. When you radio back to advise the chopper's down, I want you, John, to teleport yourself and Wade directly to it. Don't go hanging around taking shots at anybody who might still be left out there. Dukes and I will make our way down on foot, covering our retreat as we go. Our objective is not to kill as many enemy soldiers as possible, but to hold this building for one hour and escape unharmed. So no heroics this time. Dismissed."

He was given a round of salutes; a competently executed one from Dukes, a clumsy one from Bradley, a lazy one from Wade, a tense one from John, a regulation one from Maverick, and a somewhat mocking one from Victor. A proper company of soldiers would have about-faced and quick-marched away, but the group merely dispersed in silence. John lay a hand on Wade's shoulder, teleporting both of them to the roof of the building, whilst Dukes made for the stairs to the second floor. The room began to shake as he ascended, and James briefly questioned whether it was a good idea to put Dukes on the second floor of such a run-down building.

In the end, he decided it was. Unfortunately, he needed Maverick's skill to ensure the chopper landing zone remained clear, and he wanted Victor to go with him and make sure he didn't do anything stupid. He was sending Bradley with them because he wanted the young man to be the first off the battle-field, and because if anything went wrong with the chopper, Bradley was the best person to fix it. At least, the best person to fix it if anything _electrical_ went wrong with it. He turned out to be quite hopeless at fixing problems of a mechanical nature.

Once he'd ensured the ground-floor team was settled, James joined Dukes on the second floor and picked a window facing the tree-line to crouch beside. There, he took out a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it, sticking it into the corner of his mouth and taking a long drag. Dukes was silently checking his weapons, ensuring his ammo belts and cartridges were easily accessible in the heat of the moment. It was a very methodical, calming way of preparing for the upcoming battle, and James made a mental note to pair Dukes with Bradley on the next training session. The kid would probably learn more working with Dukes than he would with Victor, whom he was terrified of, and Maverick, who seemed to have little concern for anybody but himself.

An alarm outside the compound sounded, signalling the game had begun, and the thunderstorm of gunfire immediately started again. It was loudest from below, where Maverick and Victor were undoubtedly peppering the entire tree-line with paint bullets. They would regret not conserving their ammo, soon. Dukes took a few shots too, timing them to coincide with movement amongst the trees. There were thirty soldiers out there. Thirty regular soldiers, granted, but when James had realised that they stood little chance of crossing no-man's-land and breaching the compound, he'd decided to give them an edge, to make it a fairer fight. Of course, none of the team knew about it yet. They had to learn that nothing was certain, in battlefield conditions, and the unexpected _could_ happen.

In fact, the unexpected happened much faster than James had thought it would. One minute the steady storm of gunfire was thundering through the air, and the next minute there was an incredibly loud explosion, followed a few seconds later by a second deafening boom. The sound of gunfire slowed as Team X hesitated, and James knew they had stopped firing so they could look out at what had just happened.

There were two large holes in the field of no-man's-land, and clouds of dust were settling from the air. As James watched, two small canisters came hurtling across the field. One of them exploded in mid-air, accompanied by the sound of a single gun-shot from the floor below, but the other made its mark, landing on the ground and releasing a steady plume of smoke which began to obscure the battlefield.

The gunfire resumed once more as the members of Team X realised what was happening. The 'enemy' soldiers had enough grenades to blast themselves several protective holes across the field, and enough smoke-bombs to obscure their advance to those holes. The team in the compound taken up their positions expecting to do nothing but take pot-shots at men who could only cower in a trench; they hadn't expected their enemy to have this advantage, to go on the offensive, and they'd already wasted some of their ammo during the first few minutes of the game. Suddenly, the threat of defeat, the danger of going up against men who carried live grenades, became very real. The whole building began to smell of worry.

"I'll be damned," said Dukes, as he took a shot at something moving out in the smoke. "I suppose this was your idea, Logan?"

"Just trying to create a realistic scenario complete with genuine pressure," he replied, making a mockery of Maverick's earlier words.

There was another explosion outside, followed by another plume of smoke. The enemy soldiers were moving forward in pairs, one hole at a time, the men behind taking up the newly vacated holes, like baseball players running from base to base in order to reach home safely.

"If they keep up that rate of advancement," Dukes mused aloud, "they'll reach the compound long before the evac chopper gets here."

"Yeah, they're doing better than I thought they would with those grenades," James said appreciatively. Their commander, one Lieutenant Rockwell, showed more resourcefulness than James had given him credit for. If this was typical of the man's leadership style, he'd have to use the lieutenant for more of these training sessions. Even Maverick wouldn't be able to complain at the realism of this scenario.

For twenty minutes, James watched Rockwell's men advance cautiously but steadily across no-man's-land, and he felt the tension in the air of the manor-house mounting, becoming an almost tangible force. Then, twenty-five minutes after the game had begun, the enemy reached the compound gates. Logan reached for his radio, broadcasting on Team X's private channel.

"Bradley, you think you can run a low-level electric charge through that fence?" James asked, eyeing the chain-link compound gates.

"Yeah, no problem."

Another smoke-bomb was launched to obscure troop movement, and James picked up the scent of a static charge in the air. He didn't know how he was able to smell electricity, and he didn't care for the particulars. All he knew was that the charge Bradley was running through the fence was enough to shock anybody who touched it, but not enough to kill. Indeed, only a few seconds after the smoke-bomb had been activated, he heard a couple of pained cries from beside the gate, and saw the smoke cloud illuminate by white-blue flashes. Those men were lucky; Bradley could have killed them, if he'd been the vindictive type.

"_Fall back to the nearest pit!" _a voice called over the din of gunfire. James recognised it as Lieutenant Rockwell. He sounded tense but confident; he knew that he still had plenty of time to find a way to breach the perimeter. James wondered how Rockwell would handle this latest set-back, and he didn't have to wait long. The enemy's last grenade came flying, and it hit the compound gates before Zero could shoot it out of the air. The smell of melted, twisted metal reached James' nose, and his eyes confirmed it when the smoke cleared. He activated his radio again.

"Bradley, I'm going to need you to block that breach with one of those electro-magnetic forcefields of yours."

"Alright," Bradley agreed. "But I can't maintain a forcefield for very long. They're very draining."

James checked his watch. There was still half an hour to go until evac. At this rate, Team X would never make it out alive. "Just give me as long as you can, Bradley."

He couldn't see the barrier, but he could smell a change in the static charge of the air, and he knew Bradley had done as ordered. Would it tax him more quickly if men tried to pass that barrier? James wondered. Or did it drain Bradley's constitution regardless of whether anyone was trying to pass? Either way, the whole team was about to find out exactly what the youngest member of their group was made of.

There were still men in the trench at the tree-line, and they lay down cover-fire as several of the soldiers closest to the gates made a run for the breach. One by one they bounced off it, to the sound of electricity sizzling in the air. The cover-fire lasted long enough to allow those men to retreat to their bolt-holes again, at which point it stopped, and Team X, who'd been forced to retreat behind their cover to avoid being hit, were able to return fire.

It was a terrible stalemate. James didn't know if Rockwell knew how draining it was for Bradley to maintain his barrier, but the lieutenant seemed determined to breach it. He ordered another round of suppression fire, and threw another wave of men at the barrier-blocked hole. As Rockwell's men were retreating back to their holes for the second time, a voice came in over the radio.

"Logan," said Maverick, "you better think of something else, and fast. Bradley looks exhausted; I don't think he can sustain the barrier through another attack."

James glanced at his watch. Still twenty-minutes until evac. Bradley had bought them ten, but they'd need at least another fifteen before Victor, Maverick and Bradley could head to the rear of the compound. He glanced at Dukes, and saw the same calm determination in the large man's eyes that had been there at the start of the training session. No fear, no hesitation, just confidence that James would either get the job done, or they'd all go down fighting well.

Pressing the 'talk' button of his radio, he spoke again. "Wade. Think you could hold those boys off for a while, give Bradley time to recharge his batteries?"

"If I had my katanas, maybe. But you took them away from me, remember? Said I was… what was it… too reliant on them?"

"Yeah yeah, you can say 'I told you so' later. I hid your katanas in a sideboard marked with an oak leaf pattern on the second floor. Had a feeling you might need them. Get Wraith to teleport you directly to the sideboard, and then down behind that breach in the gate. We'll lay down as much cover fire for you as we can, but I suspect this will push you to your limits."

"I laugh at limits. Ha! In fact, I bet–"

"Wade, damn-it, shut up and get over here so I can teleport you," came Wraith's voice over the radio.

James turned his attention back to the battle-field. Rockwell's men had pulled back from the breach, returning to their holes where they couldn't be touched by the gunfire from Maverick, Victor and Dukes. The soldiers looked ready to mount another offensive, and sure enough, another round of cover-fire came from the trench.

"C'mon, Wade," James growled under his breath.

Just as Team X were forced to take shelter again, a blur of motion caught James' eye, and he saw Wraith deposit Wade behind the breach in the gates just as Bradley dropped the barrier, and then teleport himself back to the roof. Wade's katanas were moving even before Wraith was gone, flashing back and forth as they intercepted paint bullets, covering the blades in a coat of red which spattered all over both the ground and Wade. No doubt James would get an earful off the mercenary later, for asking him to get his beloved blades dirty, but it was a small and necessary sacrifice.

He looked at his watch again. 11:45. Just ten more minutes before the ground-floor team would have to move out back to secure the chopper landing zone. Returning his gaze to Wade, he saw the frown of concentration on the man's face, and wondered how the hell he was managing to deflect every damn bullet. He was being shot at from two directions; the trench at the tree-line, and the holes near the gate. The bullets would be travelling at different velocities, and there were multiple bullets flying at him with every passing second. James knew Wade wasn't just flashing the blades to create a sort of partial barrier; he was actually aiming for—and _hitting—_every single one.

"He won't be able to keep that up for much longer," Dukes commentated as he watch the mercenary's whirling blades. "All it would take is for one bullet to slip past his swords, and we're one man down."

James nodded. He'd asked a lot of both Bradley and Wade during this session; unfortunately, he now had to ask for a little more.

"Bradley," he said, into his radio, "I know you're tired, but we need a diversion. Wade's doing his best, but that big head of his is a tempting target."

"What did you have in mind?" Bradley replied. God, he sounded exhausted!

"Something small. Do you think you could tap into the enemy's radio frequency and transmit a fake voice?"

"I think I can manage that. What do you want Lieutenant Rockwell to say to his men?"

James smiled. Bradley was pretty quick off the mark. "Order a ceasefire, then an immediate retreat to the trench."

"I'm on it."

The gunfire continued. James glanced at his watch. 11.48, and Wade was starting to look like a man fighting for his life. Suddenly, the sound of gunfire from the field stopped, and James could almost _smell_ the confusion out there. As the assault stopped, so did Wade, gulping in air to recover his breath. Then, movement out on the field. A few of the soldiers were moving out of their holes, back to the trench. They were picked off by Maverick. Rockwell's voice called out, ordering the men to disregard that order, telling them to stay in their damn holes, out of the line of sight of the damn sharp-shooter.

James smiled again.

11.53. The enemy had wasted five minutes in the confusion, giving Wade a chance to catch his breath, and Bradley a few extra minutes to recover. As well, Maverick had shot six of the soldiers, and there were probably more 'dead' behind the tree line.

Static crackled over the radio, and a new voice spoke.

"Team X Captain, this is Lieutenant Buckley, I am approaching your evac co-ordinates, touch-down in t-minus six minutes."

"Roger that, Buckley," James said. "Victor, Bradley, Maverick, time to get your asses to the pick-up zone."

"Wait, Logan," Bradley replied. He still sounded exhausted, but determined. "I should stay here. I can put another barrier up, long enough to give us all chance to evacuate."

"Bradley, you're exhausted–"

"I can do it, Captain!"

James sighed. He'd ordered no heroics, but at least Bradley had the decency to _ask_ if he could perform heroics, instead of just doing it.

"Alright. If you say you can do it, I believe you."

"I should stay here too," Wade added, his voice crackling over the radio. "Just in case he _can't_ do it."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate," muttered Bradley.

"Enough," James interrupted. This wasn't the way the plan was supposed to go, but that was the thing about plans; they were rarely static things that went according to a man's wishes. Plans—good plans—needed to possess the flexibility to be changed at a moment's notice. "Maverick, Victor, head to the evac zone. Dukes, go with them. Ensure the area's secure. Wraith, be ready to get Wade out of there if things look like they're turning ugly. I'll cover Bradley. We've got five minutes left, people. Let's get this finished and go home."

If they managed to get out of this without incident, he might even relax his no-booze punishment. He could _definitely_ use a cold one right about now.

There was a flurry of movement through the manor-house as everyone moved to their designated areas. The enemy soldiers seemed to sense that something had changed, and resumed firing on the compound. Their shots met with an invisible barrier; Bradley had managed it again, and Wade fell to stalking back and forth behind it, katanas at the ready in case the barrier should fail.

When James reached the ground floor, he found Bradley looking pale and covered with sweat. His brows were knitted in a tight frown of concentration as he held that barrier up with every scrap of energy he possessed. No wonder the kid polished off his steaks as easily as Dukes, if this was what his power took out of him.

He looked at his watch again. 11.58.

His radio crackled. Maverick spoke.

"The chopper is on the ground, but we're starting to take enemy fire. Commence evac immediately."

As soon as the word was given, James saw Wraith teleport to Wade's side, and then both men disappeared. He turned to Bradley.

"Time to go, kid. You've done good. Let it go."

With a gasp for air, Bradley opened his eyes, panting as he spoke.

"It won't take them long to realise we're not defending anymore, Captain. They'll be all over this compound in minutes."

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

Both men stood, but Bradley quickly collapsed, too exhausted to support his own weight. James hauled him to his feet, one hand under the younger man's arm, and all but dragged him through the house. At the back door, Bradley shrugged off his Captain's grip; he didn't want to show how exhausted he was to the entire team. James realised it would likely take Bradley days to recover from this. He'd given everything he had.

The chopper blades were spinning as the last two members of the team stepped out into the daylight at the evac zone. Everybody was aboard the chopper except for Maverick, who was picking off the enemy soldiers who took shots at the chopper. Keeping low to the ground, James herded Bradley towards the chopper, then nodded at Dukes, who reached out and hauled the kid into a seat before Bradley could offer a word of protest.

"Time to go," James yelled at Maverick, and the two men backed into the chopper, still laying down cover-fire. "Lieutenant Buckley, I'm damn glad to see you. Now if you don't mind, let's get this bird in the air. Any minute now, the compound's going to be swarming with enemy soldiers."

"Aye," Buckley agreed, and he set the chopper blades spinning fast enough to achieve lift-off.

The chopper began to rise, slowly at first because of the combined weight of the men in Team X, and then with greater velocity. Only when it was twenty metres above the tree-tops did James allow himself to relax, and he looked around at the faces of his companions.

They'd done well. Dukes, Maverick, Wraith and Victor all looked tense but elated, weapons held tight across their knees to stop them falling out of the chopper as it peeled off from the battlefield. Wade's fatigues were covered in crimson, as was most of his skin, and he sat back in his seat with his katanas across his knees, seemingly too tired to talk. Bradley, meanwhile, was slumped in his chair, and looked like he'd just gone ten rounds with a heavy-weight boxer. Today, the young man had proved his worth. Today, he'd proved that he belonged here, and that he was just as much a part of the team as anyone else.

"I'm liking the red," Wade said, glancing down at his paint-covered body. "Do you think the military could be convinced to change their colour scheme?"

"Yeah, it looks real pretty on you," Wraith said. Then he turned his dark eyes to James. "So, Logan, did you get what you wanted out of that little team-bonding exercise?"

"More than I thought I would," James confirmed. He'd learnt a lot, today. He'd learnt what his team were made of. He'd learnt some of their strengths, and their weaknesses. And he'd learnt that one day, he might even be able to trust them all with his life. From now on, they were brothers-in-arms, each and every one of them.

"What's next in the team-bonding montage?" Wade asked. "Back to HQ for some healthy, completely heterosexual soapy shower fun?"

"Sure, knock yourself out," James replied. _Please do._

He leant back in his seat and looked out over the forest canopy, allowing the team chatter to filter through his mind without paying attention to it. His second week of commanding Team X had ended with a successful mission, and he knew Stryker would be waiting at Bunker Five to hear his report. No doubt he'd be pleased by their performance.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Bunker Five**

**14:06 HRS**

It was just after two o'clock in the afternoon. William Stryker looked again at the orders he'd received only an hour earlier. A mission from his superiors in Washington. The first mission the newly-formed Team X would be going on together. He'd held them back for as long as he could, trying to give his science team time to study each mutant, hoping that some major breakthrough would come. Now, those who sat comfy in Washington whilst Stryker did all the hard work, wanted to see some results, to justify what they'd spent on forming this team. Until the scientific breakthrough came, they wanted Team X to earn their keep. He couldn't blame them for wanting results, of course, but he wasn't sure how the men would perform away from their simulated training exercises.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter," he called, and watched as the team's new Captain, James Howlett—or Logan, as he preferred to be called by everybody except Victor—stepped into his office.

"Sir," said Logan, pulling off a short, sharp salute. "We've just returned from training, so I thought I'd check in with you."

"And how did it go?"

"Quite well, actually." That wasn't a surprise. Stryker had sat in on Logan's first few training sessions with the team, but when he realised his presence was a source of unease for the mutants, he'd backed off and taken to recording the sessions covertly instead. He would watch today's session later in the day. For now, he listened to Logan's recount. "There were some initial problems with the first part of the exercise, but the mission was accomplished regardless."

"What sort of 'problems'?"

Logan barely even hesitated. "Nothing to be concerned about. I've already dealt with it."

Stryker nodded. Logan's way of running the team was not exactly… regulation. '_If you want to discipline someone, discipline me',_ the large Canadian had told him on the second day of his command of the team. _'I'll be the one to discipline the men.' _Stryker knew why Logan had insisted on it being like that; he feared that if one of the team didn't perform as well as expected, they would be punished for their perceived failures. Logan wanted to act as a buffer between his men and punishment. He would take it, and dole it out where necessary.

"If you say you've handled it, I'll leave it at that," Stryker said. Besides, the tapes would tell him everything he needed to know, when he got around to watching them. "And the second part of the exercise?"

"Not a single casualty, and both Bradley and Wade performed beyond expectations."

"Good to hear." He glanced down at the orders on his desk. "Do you think they're ready to do this for real?"

Again, no hesitation. "Yes, sir. I do."

"I'm pleased to hear it," said with a smile. "Because we've just received orders. The team will be going on its first mission, leaving tomorrow evening."

"Tomorrow evening?" Logan frowned.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"Bradley might need more time to recover. I pushed him hard today."

"Then he'll have to recover on the way."

"The way to where, Major?"

"Italy." He handed the paper over to Logan, and gave him a run-down of the report. "There's concern in Washington about the growing number of illegal weapons entering the country. Two days ago, a cache was seized from a private plane belonging to Stefano Bertelli, a leading figure amongst the Mafia. Unfortunately, Bertelli himself managed to escape by boat to Cuba, and from there he took a flight to Milan. Due to the nature of the situation, it's outside the military's normal jurisdiction. Team X has been asked to gather evidence of Bertelli's involvement in weapons smuggling, and apprehend him—alive—for further questioning. We leave tomorrow morning, arriving twenty-four hours later."

"You're coming with us?" Logan sounded surprised, and a little sceptical.

"Of course. I hand-picked this team, Logan. I want to be there to see it in action. And to take responsibility in case anything goes wrong." Plus, he wanted to remind Team X that they were still _his_ team; not Logan's.

"I understand. If that's all, sir, I'll go and inform the men, and make sure they're well-rested before we set off tomorrow."

Stryker nodded. "Dismissed, Captain."

Logan saluted again and left the office, leaving Stryker alone with his thoughts.

_Italy. Seven men against the Mafia. A covert operation into the very heart of a mob-controlled city, and a vital extraction in potentially hostile territory. Could it be done?_

He looked to the picture of his smiling wife and son. "The things I do to keep you safe, Sarah," he sighed. Perhaps, once he got back from Italy with Team X and their Mafia prisoner, he'd take a few days off to spend time with his family. He owed them that much.


	4. From Verona with Love

No I in Team

* * *

"_We are delighted with all who love, as we do, danger, war, and adventures, who refuse to compromise, to be captured, reconciled, and castrated; we count ourselves among conquerors; we think about the necessity for new orders, also for a new slavery – for every strengthening and enhancement of the human type also involves a new kind of enslavement.__" —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_4. From Verona with Love_

**Location: Bunker Five**

**02:30 HRS…ish**

James was woken by the quiet sound of a door clicking closed. He sat up in bed and sniffed the air, but his bedroom door was an effective barrier, allowing little or no scent to pass. Pushing off his military regulation blanket, he stepped silently on the balls of his feet across the cold floor, ignoring the cool air which chilled his skin to goosebumps.

There were no locks on the bedroom doors, by simple virtue of the fact that most of the mutants would find locked doors little to no obstacle if they decided they wanted to leave their rooms. The corridor was full of myriad smells, but the strongest of them was Bradley. Sure enough, when James glanced down the corridor to the security door which led out of the building, he saw that it was unlocked and ajar.

He moved silently once more, his bare feet cushioning his every step so that not even Victor would have heard him. He passed through the security door, and down another corridor, until he reached a crossroads of sorts; the corridor continued straight ahead, to the grounds of the compound, whilst a flight of concrete steps doubled back on itself, leading to the roof. It was the upper route Bradley had taken, and James followed the young man's scent up the stairs.

The access door to the roof was also unlocked. James knew he oughta be angry that Bradley was out of bed after lights-out, but the fact that he was unlocking security doors was indication that he was recovering well from his actions earlier that afternoon. Or was it yesterday afternoon, now?

When he stepped onto the roof a gust of wind whipped at his hair, chilling his skin further, and he narrowed his eyes against it. He followed Bradley's scent around a few skylight windows, and found the young man sheltering behind a large, covered air-duct, his elbows leaning against the roof-wall, his gaze turned upwards to the clear, starry sky.

"Whatcha doing, Bradley?" James asked, joining the other mutant at the wall.

"I like to come up here sometimes, and look at the stars," Bradley said, not shifting his gaze from those distant, twinkling lights. "When I was a kid, I used to dream of travelling amongst them. Like on _Star Trek_, y'know? Do you think that's a bit… stupid?"

"Dreams are never stupid. Don't let anybody tell you they are."

"Do you have dreams?"

"I used to," James admitted. He, too, had once been young and idealistic.

"But not anymore? Why did you stop having them?"

"I saw too much." He took a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts. This conversation was starting to take on a philosophical slant, and he wasn't all that good at philosophy. "It was never going to be easy for people like us to fit in and live small, uncomplicated lives. What we are… it separates us, in some ways, from humanity. For a long time, I thought I could have dreams, and I even pursued some of them. I only wanted little things; peace, happiness, a family to care for. I found myself a good woman, tried the whole 'settling down' thing."

"It didn't work out?"

"For a while, it did. But then I had to watch as everyone around me aged, or got sick, and one by one, they died. After thirty years, the woman I loved began to resent me for my youth. I could see that just being near me was causing her jealousy to consume her from within, turning her into something she was not."

"What'd you do?"

James smiled to himself, but it was a bitter smile, devoid of humour. "I ran away. Oh, I didn't do it obviously. But when fighting broke out in Europe, I answered the call to war. Claimed it was my duty to fight. I caught up with Victor, and we spent two years in the trenches of World War One. And after the fighting was done, I didn't go home. Stayed in France for some twenty years, only returning to Canada when I was certain my wife was either dead or too old to remember my face. At the time, I told myself I was doing the sensible thing, but looking back, I can see my cowardice for what it was."

"I never thought I'd hear you, of all people, admit to being a coward."

"Well, that was a long time ago. I've learnt from my mistakes since then. My point is, everybody deserves to have dreams. Just because I don't have them anymore, doesn't mean you shouldn't either. We're both mutants, but we're not the same. You don't have to suffer the curse of immortality, of watching people you care about get hurt and get sick and die. Your dreams, be they of a woman, or a simple life, or of travelling amongst the stars, are yours, and you shouldn't give up on them easily."

Bradley nodded, and rubbed his hands together, finally turning away from the stars to address James directly.

"That exercise we did earlier… is that what it's really like, on a battlefield?"

"No, it's worse."

"When I heard that first grenade explode, everything suddenly became… real. And then it hit me. I could die. For all of Stryker's talk about serving my country, I'm going to be putting my life on the line every time I step out of Bunker Five's doors. Until now, I hadn't realised what that would be like. And now _I_ feel like a coward, for being afraid."

"Do you even know what bravery is?" James asked. This conversation, he realised, was long overdue. It wasn't a conversation that the others needed, because time and experience had taught them all they needed to know, but Bradley didn't have that benefit. The young man had been here three months, and today—or yesterday, whatever—was the first time he'd actually gained an inkling of how dangerous his life would soon become.

"Sure. Bravery is not being afraid."

"No. Bravery is carrying out your orders, doing what needs to be done, even though you _are_ afraid. Why do you think Zero left the trench and went on an offensive? Why do you think Wade stood his ground and defended that breach against two dozen gunmen? They have so much confidence in themselves, in their own abilities, that they've lost their fear. Zero knew he could clear out that compound without breaking a sweat, just as Wade knew he could deflect every bullet shot at him. For them, there was only the physical challenge. Just as you can't have the light without darkness, you can't have bravery without fear. Today, Bradley, you were the bravest man of us all. You proved that, when you went up against your own fears, and won."

"I'm not sure the others would agree with your assessment," Bradley said, but he smelled pleased, and proud.

"What they think doesn't matter to me, and it shouldn't matter to you. If you're lucky, you'll always keep some amount of fear, so that you can always be a brave man. If you ask me, brave men is one thing this world is lacking."

"Thanks, Logan," the young mutant said. "I appreciate the pep talk."

"Don't mention it, k— Bradley." He was going to say 'kid,' but he changed his mind at the last minute. His conversation with Bradley had shown him that the youngest member of Team X _wasn't_ a kid. Not anymore. Not after today. James just hoped that Bradley wouldn't grow up too fast. He knew, better than most, how time could run away with a man if he took his eye off it for even an instant.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: The Middle of the Atlantic Ocean**

**32,000ft above sea level**

**16:50 HRS**

The airplane dipped, and James' stomach dipped with it. He wasn't _afraid_ of flying—it was just something his stomach didn't agree with. Helicopters weren't so bad, because they didn't fly so fast, and they usually flew low enough that James knew he could jump out without breaking too many bones if he needed an exit route. But planes… they flew too fast and too high, and were at the mercy of the winds, and engine failure, and stray pigeons. No, he didn't fear planes… he just had a healthy respect for them.

One of the air hostesses opened the door to their private, first-class compartment, and gave them a cheerful smile. "Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?"

James would have killed for a beer right then, or even some whisky to help calm his nerves, but he had a mission, so alcohol was out. Stryker replied for the whole team.

"No thank you, ma'am. And if you don't mind, we'd like to be left alone for the remainder of the journey. My team have a big game soon, and I don't want them getting distracted."

"Of course," the hostess replied. If she was offended by Stryker's words, she didn't show it. A true professional. "Good luck with your game, sir."

_Game_. James snorted. That was their 'cover.' Ordinarily, black-ops missions would see a team parachuting into hostile territory—insertion, they called it—or landing on some out-of-the-way strip. But, as Stryker had pointed out, Milan was hardly some minor back-water; there were no quiet strips near the city, and men parachuting into the middle of a metropolis would look far too suspicious. Besides, Bertelli and his men were probably on edge after their near-miss, and would be on the look-out for any suspicious air activity. By pretending to be a Canadian soccer team travelling to Italy under the guise of competing against European teams, Stryker hoped to fly under the mob's radar—literally.

As soon as the hostess was gone and the door securely closed, Stryker called for attention as he produced a map from his carry-all and taped it to the cabin door.

"As you have already been informed by Logan," Stryker began, "we've been given the task of infiltrating the Italian Mafia, finding incriminating evidence, and extracting a man named Stefano Bertelli for extradition back to the US. Now, at approximately o'five thirty hours tomorrow we'll be landing at the airport in Verona, and, using the false identities provided by the CIA, we'll check into the Metro Hotel. From there we'll take a bus to a designated safe-house in Bergamo, on the outskirts of Milan, and await further instructions."

"Further instructions?" asked Wraith.

"There are a half-dozen or more places where Bertelli could be holed up, and we don't have the time or resources to hit every one. Before we can move, we need to know where to strike. Fortunately, we're not the only ones looking to bring Bertelli to justice. As soon as he fled America, we sent a message to the British Secret Intelligent Service. They've got an operative in Milan who's been working to infiltrate the Mafia for months. Once the SIS operative has located Bertelli, we'll swoop in and pick him up. The operative will arrange transport for us to Bologna, where a plane will be waiting to bring us home."

"As easy as that," Bradley said with a quick nervous smile.

"As long as we follow the plan, it _will_ be as easy as that."

Logan gave Bradley a reassuring nod. Plans were all well and good, and he hoped to hell that this one went as smoothly as Stryker implied, but he knew that could change with only a moment's notice. Plans were like that. The more intricate you made them, the more things could go wrong. He just hoped that Stryker's plan wasn't any more complicated than it needed to be.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Military Safe-house, Bergamo**

**Repubblica Italiana**

**14:00 HRS**

The safe-house in Bergamo was a decent-sized manor up in the hills, obscured from the view of the sprawling, red-tiled town by a stand of trees lining the road to the driveway. There was some tension in the air, which tickled James' nose, but it had yet to reach boiling point. For the moment, everybody was keeping their wits about them. Well, most people were keeping their wits about them. Wade was up on the roof frying himself beneath the baking sun. He claimed he wanted to sunbathe, but in fact he was simply sulking because he hadn't been able to check his katanas onto the plane whilst they were State-side. Stryker wouldn't even hear of him making the attempt, and had ordered all weapons to be left behind. He wanted nothing to raise suspicions as they passed through customs, and two katanas would _definitely _have raised a few eyebrows.

James, of course, had his own natural weapons that he hadn't been able to leave behind, and it was the same for Victor. He knew that some of the men, especially Maverick, felt naked without a gun in their hands, but Stryker had assured them that would be rectified as soon as they had a target.

"What if something's gone wrong?" Bradley said. He was sitting in the airy living room of the manor, playing a game of poker along with Maverick, Wraith and Dukes. Victor was in the kitchen, raiding the fridge for anything that had meat, and James had planted himself beside the window so he could look out over the beautiful vista. Stryker, he suspected, was in the communications room downstairs, plotting and scheming with whomever he as able to contact.

"Nothing will go wrong," Maverick said absently. He was looking at his cards with an expression of intense concentration. From where he was standing, James could see the sharp-shooter had a good hand.

"But what if the SIS agent gets captured, or killed, and we don't know where to find Bertelli?"

"Then Stryker will think of something else," said Dukes. Curious about the big man's hand, James walked around the table. A ten-high straight. Even better than what Maverick had.

"Maybe we'll get time to do a little sight-seeing," Wraith added. "I've never been to Italy before." James noticed the black man held a royal flush. Damn, how had he managed that?

Victor appeared with a ham sandwich in his hands. Dukes eyed it with open envy, but didn't leave his place at the table. He probably thought he could win this hand. Poor fool.

Bradley sighed, and James walked around the table to glance at the young mutant's hand. He held only a pair of jacks.

"Just how much are you playing for?" James asked. There was a pile of money in the middle of the table.

"Ante's twenty bucks, and the pot's up to two-sixty," Wraith said calmly.

"You should fold," James told Bradley.

"Hey, you can't tell him to do that!" objected Wraith.

"I can tell him whatever the hell I want. No point him losing more money than he already has."

"In that case, I fold," Bradley said, tossing his cards face-down on the table.

Victor gave a throaty chuckle. "Looks like someone forgot his suntan lotion."

James glanced up and saw Wade come back in from outside, looking considerably pinker than he had before. In one hand he carried a small Italian phrasebook.

"Where'd you get that?" Bradley asked.

"A kid was selling them outside the airport. Figured I should at least learn the language whilst I'm local. Here," Wade said, handing the book over. "Keep it if you like, I'm done with it."

"You learnt Italian in three hours?" James said. Wade really _had_ been out in the sun for too long if he thought that one was going to fly.

Wade shrugged. "Sì, l'ho fatto. E mi piacerebbe offrire a insegnare, ma avete il cervello di un bue e vorrei probabile morire di vecchiaia mentre l'insegnamento di 'destra' da 'sinistra.'"

"Huh," said Wraith, momentarily forgetting his winning poker hand.

"How do you say 'make me a sandwich'?" asked Dukes.

"I'm not telling you that, but I _will_ tell you the appropriate response," Wade said, flipping two fingers up at the larger man.

Further sandwich demands were cut short as Stryker climbed up the stairs from the basement. It was strange to see him out of uniform, but James hadn't forgotten for even one moment who was the superior officer on this mission. James might be Captain of the team, but the team itself belonged to Stryker. And, by extension, the US government.

"Any word on the SIS operative, sir?" Maverick asked. He folded his hand down, taking himself out of the game, and Wraith groaned at the loss of yet another opponent.

"Not yet," Stryker replied, "but I'm not concerned. I was told that contact would not be immediate. We'll just sit tight until we hear from him."

"How much do you actually know about this operative?" James asked. He wasn't as quick to trust outsiders as Stryker was. In some ways, he was still getting to know his own team. The last thing he wanted was a loose cannon thrown into the mix.

"Only his SIS code-name: Talon. But I'm assured he's the best man to help us achieve this mission. Anyway, I can see you're in the middle of a game. Don't let me stop you. I'd recommend, though, you take it in turns getting some shut-eye whilst you can. Talon could contact us at any moment, and you might not get another chance to rest."

Stryker disappeared back to the communications room, and Victor rolled his eyes.

"Sleep? Who ever heard of sleeping in the middle of the day, in ninety-degree heat?" he scoffed.

"Here in Italy it's called a _riposo_," said Wade. "Though in Spain, they call it a _siesta_. Either way, it sounds like a good idea to me. Wake me when it's show-time." He disappeared up the stairs to the second floor, where the windows were open in the bedrooms to allow a cooler breeze to blow through.

"You should get some rest too, Bradley," said James. "Chances are we're going to need your powers soon."

"Alright. But you'll wake me if anything interesting happens, right?"

"Of course."

Dukes sniffed, and scratched his head. "Think I'll get a couple of hours of sleep too."

"Wait, we've still got a round to finish!" Wraith objected.

"Nah, I fold."

"Aww, man! Thanks a lot, Logan," grumbled Wraith. He threw his cards face down on the table, and didn't even bother to look at the pile of money. James smiled, and returned to his study of the hazy Italian vista.

The afternoon passed. The temperature began to cool, mirroring the sky which began to darken. Dukes woke up, and in a charitable moment, offered to cook dinner for everyone in the manor's spacious kitchen. Not long after, Bradley and Wade were woken by the smell of spaghetti bolognaise—_what else should a man cook in Italy? _Dukes had said—cooking over a hot stove. Stryker joined the team for dinner, then retreated back down to the basement.

A nearby church bell began to toll, marking the tenth hour of the night. James was about to suggest that some of the other team-members get a few hours of shut-eye, when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of an approaching vehicle. Glancing at Victor, he knew his brother had heard it too; the man's head was cocked as he listened to the noise. It was a large vehicle, some sort of truck, James decided, and the engine sounded smooth as it was driven. A well-maintained truck was a commodity in Italy; the drivers here were lunatics who had no concept of the rules of the road. The moped riders were the worst. Suicidal, the lot of them.

"If could be nothing," James said quietly to Victor.

"Since when is it ever 'nothing,' with us?" his brother countered.

James nodded, and addressed the rest of the team. "There's a truck coming. Might be our guy, might not. Could just be some poor lost driver taken a wrong turn out of Bergamo. But until we know for sure, let's have everyone take a defensive position."

The manor turned into a blur of activity as everyone scrambled for a better place. James himself stood in the alcove behind the front door. Victor took a place under the stairs, and Bradley pressed himself in there too. Maverick and Wade crouched behind one of the sofas, whilst Dukes stepped behind the kitchen wall. Wraith teleported himself to the balcony at the top of the stairs. And then everyone held their breath.

The sound of the engine stopped. James heard the truck door open, heard someone drop down from the cabin, and then the door was slammed closed. Footsteps approached the manor. Light footsteps, like somebody stepping softly, tiptoeing to be quiet. Perhaps an SIS agent, or perhaps a mob goon hoping to surprise his would-be attackers.

Somebody rapped loudly on the front door, and James' heart almost jumped out of his chest. He could feel the adrenaline working its way through his body, preparing himself for the worst possible outcome. If this was to be an assassination attempt, then he would bear the brunt of it. His men would not be harmed by whoever was out there.

He stepped forward and pulled the door open, bunching up his fist and preparing to unsheathe his claws should the need arise. But it wasn't a gun-toting Mafia crone he found himself facing; it was a woman. Clad in a skin-tight black suit, with black gloves covering her hands and sturdy black boots which were fastened tight around her lower legs, she stood at her ease, her scent speaking of amusement and confidence. Her eyes were a shade of forest-green he'd never encountered on a person before, and her long dark brown hair was tied back behind her head, allowing gentle, wavy locks to cascade down past her shoulders. Her face was an oval, almost elfin shape, her features fine and delicate. Her pale skin made her appear sculpted from porcelain, and one dark eyebrow quirked up in a questioning way as he stood there looking at her and feeling like an idiot for staring.

"Major Stryker?" she asked, a cultured English accent twisting her words into an almost-song.

"Er, no. Logan." Next to her, he felt like a clumsy oaf. His words sounded completely inelegant, completely inadequate.

"Ahh, I see. Well, I am Talon. I believe Major Stryker's expecting me."

In the room behind him, Logan heard the rest of the team move out into the open.

"Are you going to invite me in, or are we going to discuss our business out here, for all and sundry to hear?" she asked, still smelling of that same aloof amusement.

"How do we know you're really Talon?" Wraith asked. "Do you have any ID?"

"Oh yes, of course. Let me just go back to the lorry and I'll get my purse, where I keep my ID which states I'm a member of my government's intelligence service, and that I'm here to spy on the Italian people. I'll just be a moment."

"ID won't be necessary," James said, opening the door wider to allow her to step inside. "If you say you're Talon, then you're Talon." Besides, if she wasn't Talon, Stryker would probably know. James turned to Bradley. "Go and fetch Stryker."

Bradley nodded and made for the lower staircase. As he did, Wade stepped forward and opened his mouth.

"No," Talon said immediately, treating the former mercenary to a cool-eyed glance. "But you're going to want to go and get my bags from the back of the lorry for me. Run along, love," she said, making a shooing gesture towards her parked truck. Wade only hesitated a moment, then left, and Talon eyed up the rest of the team. Her gaze settled on Dukes. "Be a dear and go and help him, will you? He won't be able to carry them all on his own. A lady's got to have her bags, you know."

Dukes nodded and followed Wade out into the night. James heard the sound of a truck being unloaded, but Bradley returned with Stryker, and he turned his attention back to the room.

"Major Stryker," Talon said, stepping forward once she'd spotted the older man. "Talon, MI6."

"MI6?" asked Maverick.

"Military Intelligence, Section Six. Our name for the SIS."

"Welcome to our safe-house, operative," Stryker said, offering the woman his hand. He looked her up and down, assessing her candidly. "I must admit, I was expecting somebody a little more…"

"Male?" she suggested, shaking his hand. "Yes, I suppose you were. Military and espionage roles have traditionally fallen into the male employment category. I'm sure you'll be more than satisfied with my service, however."

"I'm sure I will," Stryker smiled. James suspected he was going to try to be charming with the woman. "Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink? I know you've undoubtedly been working hard over the past few days, to ensure the success of our joint operation."

"Thank you, but I don't require anything at the moment."

"Very well. Should we begin?"

"In just a moment. I sent two of your boys to unload my lorry. There are items in my bags that I need."

"Ahh, of course."

James watched the whole exchange, trying to decide how this 'Talon' would fit into Stryker's plans… how she would fit in with the rest of Team X on this mission. Now, both she and Stryker smelled cautious, like two dogs circling each other, unsure of each others' intentions. When Wade and Dukes returned with Talon's bags—five large black carryalls—the woman led them to the living room, and stood behind the same coffee table the men had been playing poker on hours earlier. Team X took seats around the room, some on the sofas, some on dining chairs, whilst Stryker himself stood off to one side, as if unwilling to relinquish the floor entirely to the stranger.

"First of all," Talon said, removing her gloves and dropping them onto the table, "I'm going to be blunt with you. I have been working here for _months_, carefully planning my every move, spending every waking hour dedicated to my mission. Everything I have put into motion is still very… sensitive, and I'm not going to have my plans ruined by a bunch of gun-toting cowboys."

"Actually, I'm Canadian," Wade said.

"Good for you, dear." Talon stepped back, glancing at everybody in turn, including Stryker. "Now, I have all the intel you need to not only extract Bertelli, but to pin enough evidence on him to lock him away for the rest of his life. I'm not just talking about smuggling weapons. That's just the tip of the iceberg. Blackmail, fraud, murder… Stefano Bertelli is a nasty piece of work. If we're going to do this, then we're going to do it my way. We'll be following my plan, and I'll be the one calling the shots. What you do with Bertelli once you've extracted him is your business and I'd rather not know about it, but until that moment, this is still _my_ mission. Understood?"

"If your plan is sound, I have no problem with that," Stryker said, but he didn't smell pleased about it.

"Good." Talon opened one of her carry-alls up, and brought out several rolled up papers. The first one she unrolled showed the schematics of a building; a tall tower-block, by the looks of it. And indeed, she unclipped a photograph from the back of the map, and held it up for the team to see. "This is the Corona Building. It's owned by an engineering company… but that's just a front for the Mafia's operations. This is one of their headquarters, under direct control of Stefano Bertelli."

"Is that where we'll find him?" Stryker asked.

"No. But more on that later." She passed the photo around, and lay the schematic diagram on the table. "The evidence you need to convict Bertelli is contained in a computer, on the top floor of the Corona Building." She tapped the map with her fingers. "Given enough time, I could probably hack it and download the information to a portable hard-drive, but to be honest, machines are not my forte, and I'm not that good. I suggest you send your man Bradley in there, to hack into the mainframe. I can provide you with a security pass-code for one of our intelligence satellites, which you can use to piggy-back the information off, and send it to your own people in America. Faster than downloading to a portable hard-drive, and less risk of losing the data if we're caught."

"Wait a minute," James said, sitting up straighter in his chair, "nobody told you Bradley's name."

Talon smiled. "I'm very good at my job, Captain."

"What about Bertelli?" Stryker asked. He didn't seem concerned that Talon had information she shouldn't know. How the hell had the woman discovered Bradley's name, and known that he'd be able to hack a computer? Were there British spies somewhere, with files on each member of Team X? Had the US government given this woman information about every single one of them, in exchange for her help?

"Bertelli didn't return to the Corona Building when he reached Milan," Talon continued. She pulled another rolled-up map from her bag. "He went straight to one of his safe-houses on the outskirts of Milan. A place called Trezzano sul Naviglio, in eastern Lombardy. Out in what I believe you might call 'the sticks.' Bertelli's wife and three children are there, along with a dozen armed body-guards.

"Now, if we're going to be successful, we're going to need to run a two-pronged attack. One team to hit the Corona Building, the second to move in and capture Bertelli. These manoeuvres will need to be carefully timed to coincide with each other, so there's little chance of one group being tipped off by the other. As I already mentioned, I suspect you'll need to send Mr Bradley to extract the relevant information from the Corona Building, but you should send at _least_ three other men to back him up, as the building is very heavily guarded. I myself will be with the team that captures Bertelli."

"Don't you think it would be better for you to go with Bradley?" Stryker asked. "By the sounds of it, you know the layout of the building well."

"No," Talon said immediately. She suddenly smelled of stubborn determination. And, for some reason, of violence. "I told you that Bertelli is a nasty piece of work, and I meant it. He doesn't have his family holed up with him because he fears for their safety, but because he will happily use his wife _and_ children as bullet-shields for himself. My main concern at this point is to prevent any harm coming to Bertelli's family. If they were killed or injured, it could elicit global sympathy for Bertelli. The diplomatic fallout would be… problematic. Pick your teams wisely, Major, for if anything should happen to those innocent people, I will make _sure_ the whole world knows that your government was behind such actions."

"I see."

"Good." She smiled again, green eyes sparkling in her face. "One more thing. There are two separate groups of security inside the Corona Building. One of the groups—the plain security guards—believe they work for the engineering company which owns the building. They have no idea they work for the Mafia, and many of them would be horrified if they found out. I would greatly appreciate it if your men could limit casualties to the security guards. I'm sure even cowboys can tell the difference between truncheon-carrying men in uniforms and gun-wielding mob members."

_Damn,_ James thought. Talon asked for a lot. No casualties where Bertelli's family was concerned was probably do-able, but no casualties to the security guards? That was going to be _far_ more difficult. Most of Team X had no problem with killing anybody who stood in their way, regardless of whether that person was perceived to be dangerous. Hell, Victor had killed or injured more than one unarmed man in the heat of the moment.

"Well, Logan," Stryker said, watching him with those steely grey eyes. "What do you think of the plan?"

"I think it could work," he replied. Indeed, it was a very thorough, well-thought-out plan. Talon had clearly done her homework, and judging from her steady and determined scent, she'd carried out this sort of operation more than once before.

"Then I'll leave it to you to decide the teams. You've been training the men hard these past two weeks, so I'm sure you'll know where they'll be best placed."

James nodded, thinking quick. "Bradley's team will consist of…" he wanted to say himself. He wanted to be there, to help Bradley, to give the boy the support he needed. But he didn't want to leave the extraction of Bertelli entirely to Talon. His men might not follow her instructions, and James wouldn't be able to live with himself if one of those kids was killed. "…Dukes and Victor," he finished. Hopefully, Dukes would be strong enough—and sensible enough—to keep Victor from killing too many people, and dependable enough to keep an eye on Bradley too.

"Your marksman should go with them as well," Talon suggested, gesturing at David North.

James frowned. He'd wanted Maverick on his team, to pick off the men guarding Bertelli. But Talon was giving him a _very_ pointed look, her green eyes trying to convey more than she could say.

"Alright," he agreed. "And John, as well," he added as an afterthought. If the shit started to hit the fan, John could get Bradley—and anybody else—out of that building fast enough. It did leave his own team a little low on numbers, though.

"Good," Talon nodded in approval. "I wish you'd brought more men; infiltrating and holding that building whilst your electronics man uploads the data to satellite won't be easy. But I suppose we'll just have to make do with what we have. Major Stryker, we're going to need a reliable man with a cool head to drive the get-away lorry, and to handle comms and co-ordinate our attacks."

"That'll be my role, then," Stryker said. "I doubt I'll be as much use in a firefight as the rest of the team anyway."

Talon nodded.

"Uh, question," Wade said, holding one hand up in the air like a schoolboy. "How are we supposed to partake in a firefight without weapons?"

"Your government had some very odd requests," Talon said. She dumped one of the carry-alls onto the table and unzipped it, lifting out two curved long swords. She gave them to Wade, then withdrew a couple of pistols, tossing them to Maverick. "These three bags are full of weapons; a mixture of semi-automatics, pistols, knives… I even got my hands on nun-chucks, just in case any of you know how to use them. The fourth bag has your clothes."

"Clothes?" said Dukes, as if the concept was alien.

"We can't have you assaulting one of the mob's headquarters whilst looking like slack-jawed Yankee tourists, now can we?" Talon said, smelling amused again. "Gentlemen, I suggest you get changed, familiarise yourself with the layout of whichever place you'll be fighting in, and load up your weapons. The night isn't getting younger, and I'd rather not spend any more time than necessary in this bloody hot country."

* * *

_Author's Note: Just in case you were wondering, it took Team X 24 hours to reach Italy as there were no direct flights to Verona. They had to change over in Gatwick, which added a several-hour delay, during which time Dukes managed to lock himself in one of the public toilets prompting a three-maintenance-man rescue operation, Bradley got separated from the group and wandered around lost for two hours before Logan finally tracked him down, and Wade single-handedly offended almost every female staff member in the airport, narrowly avoiding sparking a major diplomatic incident. But these aren't the things you come here to read about… right?_


	5. Grace Under Pressure

No I in Team

* * *

"_Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent—thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman, and loves only a warrior." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_5. Grace Under Pressure_

**Location: The inside of a lorry**

**En route to Trezzano sul Naviglio**

**23:30 HRS**

The air in the back of the truck was blessedly cool, and blessedly silent to James' ears. The faces of Team X, as they sat on two opposing benches, were cast into shadow as much as they were illuminated by a dim light suspended from the roof of the large vehicle. In the semi-darkness, Maverick and Dukes checked over their weapons, making sure everything was working correctly. Victor was sitting with a happy little smile on his face; he was always happiest, when the prospect of violence was before him. Bradley, meanwhile, was taking deep, calming breaths, trying not to let the others see his nervousness. Wraith was tapping his foot to some internal rhythm, and Wade was lovingly caressing the katanas Talon had provided. The woman herself was sitting cross-legged on the end of a bench, her eyes closed and her face serene. The weapon she'd picked for herself was a simple pistol, now holstered at her waist. _Damn, she's good-looking_, James thought.

A small smile played across her lips.

"Hey, Talon," Wraith said, interrupting her meditation. The smile vanished from her face, and she opened her emerald-like eyes. "I got a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Where did you get all your intel?"

"A good spy never gives up his secrets," she smiled. "And I'm the best spy in the world."

"But how do you know your information's correct? I mean… you said that Bertelli's responsible for blackmail and murder, on top of the weapons smuggling. How did you find out about that?"

She smiled and tapped her nose.

"How sure are you that Bertelli's in his safe-house?" Maverick asked. "If he's got more than one, couldn't he be in any of them?"

"He's in the one I've described."

"Have you seen him there, with your own eyes?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you've got the right place?"

"Because I bloody well said so!" she snapped with irritation.

"A little touchy, don't you think?" said Maverick. He seemed to be enjoying getting under her skin. "I just want to make sure we're acting on correct information."

The truck—or lorry, as Talon called it—lurched to a slow halt, and Talon's radio crackled with static.

"This is as far as we can go," Stryker's disembodied voice said. "We're about a mile from Bertelli's safe-house, but I can't risk taking us any closer. There's plenty of cover for you to make the rest of the way on foot."

"Acknowledged," Talon replied. "We'll head out now and wait in position. Our attack will occur at exactly twelve o'clock, unless we hear otherwise from you. Good luck, Major."

"And to you."

James followed Talon to the back of the truck, and Wade followed him. The back doors were opened, the three slipped out, and then the doors were closed again from the inside. The small team stepped off the road so that the truck could turn around and head back to the centre of Milan, where the second team's mission would go down. Wade waved as the truck—which had the image of a bottle of olive-oil painted on the side—disappeared from view, then Talon led them into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the road, and they set out across the countryside.

"Can I ask you a question?" James said to her.

"I'm not going to tell you where I got my intel from," she said firmly.

"I wasn't going to ask. But I wanted to know… why did you suggest Maverick go with the second team, instead of with us?"

"Your marksman?" Talon asked, and James nodded. "He doesn't like women."

"I knew it!" Wade said, smiling wickedly in the moonlight.

"I don't mean it like that," she continued. "I doubt he would have followed my instructions, and he would not have cared if Bertelli's wife was hit by a stray bullet. I would have liked your teleporter to have come with us, but I can understand why you assigned him to the other team."

James stopped in his tracks, and both Talon and Wade, who'd kept going, turned and looked at him.

"We have to get going, Captain," the woman said. "We need to be in place as your men arrive at the Corona Building."

"How did you know?" he asked, ignoring the urgency in her voice.

"Know what?"

"About Bradley? About what he can do? And what Wraith is? How did you know that Maverick doesn't like women?"

"Like I said before, I'm the best spy in the world."

"That's not good enough, Talon," he said. He didn't like being kept in the dark. "If someone's told you about us—"

She cut him off. "Nobody's told me about anything. I haven't even spoken to my handlers in the SIS since they asked me to meet you and procure your items. I prefer to work alone."

"You should definitely rectify that," Wade said. "If you want, I could—"

"Stop talking," Talon said. And, for a wonder, he did.

Logan narrowed his eyes, and took a step forward. Little incongruities were starting to make sense; how she'd known about the team; how she knew where Bertelli was, and the things he had done; why she'd smiled when he'd thought she was attractive; how she knew that his team comprised of mutants, yet didn't bat an eyelid when most people would recoil in fear.

"You can read minds," he accused. "You're a mutant."

A tiny smile curled the corners of her lips. "I prefer the term 'special operative,' but yes, telepathy is my ability. Reading thoughts, sometimes emotions, displaying images inside a mind, a certain degree of mind-control, and _for the love of God, would you stop doing that_?!" she said, whirling around to Wade with a scowl.

"Doing what?" he asked, a too-innocent expression plastered on his face.

"Projecting mental images at me! My God, man, is that all you ever think about?"

"No, I think about lots of things. I was just checking that you really can read minds. I'll stop now. Wait, one more. Okay, that was the last one, I promise."

"We're wasting time," Talon said, and she set off once more towards the nearby woods. James, after aiming a warning look at Wade, hurried after her. He realised, now, why she preferred to work alone. If she heard thoughts as sensitively as he heard voices… the poor woman must be constantly inundated by unwanted thoughts and emotions coming from others. In an attempt to not be part of the problem, he emptied his mind and tried to think about nothing.

Their small group moved swiftly and with very little noise. Talon led the way, and seemed to know where she was going, because she never once stopped to consult the map she carried in her small bag. They covered the mile to Bertelli's safe-house in about seven minutes, which left them almost ten minutes ahead of schedule. If everything was going smoothly with the truck, Stryker's team would be reconnoitring the area around the Corona Building, looking for the best way in, and the best place for Stryker to wait for them to complete their mission.

James spotted a group of small trees or shrubs a couple of dozen metres from Bertelli's safe-house, and pointed them out to Talon. She nodded, and let him lead the way. They hunkered down behind the bushes, and Talon opened up her backpack, taking out a pair of binoculars. After she'd looked through them, she handed them to James. He was impressed; he hadn't even given a moment of thought to bringing binoculars.

He looked through them. Despite the fact that it was midnight, several lights were on within the safe-house, and a few floodlights were lit in the surrounding grounds. It ruined his night-vision, but that didn't matter, because the guards had been stupid enough to illuminate everything he needed to see. If there was any doubt that these guards were plain city-thugs, it quickly fled his mind. Trained soldiers knew better than to light a place up like that.

"I don't see Bertelli, or his family," he said, finally handing the binoculars to Wade, so that the former mercenary could see what he was getting into.

"They've probably been in bed for hours. Sleeping soundly, I'll wager," Talon replied.

"Can't you just… you know… mind-control Bertelli into handing himself over?"

"If it was that easy," she said, her tone wry, "I would have done it months ago and saved all of us this hassle."

"So why's it not that easy?"

She sighed. "I don't have the ability to control minds, per se. What I do is a form of… well, almost hypnotic suggestion. But it's vocal, so I have to speak my commands. Also, the success of that particular ability depends upon the willingness of the subject to believe and obey what I tell them. For example, if I was to tell Wade here to completely strip his clothes off, he'd be naked in ten seconds. But if I told him to believe that he's a six year old ballerina called Beatrice… well, he wouldn't be quite as willing to do that. He'd mentally fight the command, and most likely be able to shake it off. That's why I asked you to send your marksman, Maverick, with the other group. His dislike of me, of women in general, would likely be stronger than my power of suggestion."

"Wait a minute, I'm confused," said Wade. "Am I still supposed to be wearing my clothes?"

"So you use the power of somebody's belief to reinforce your suggestion?" James asked.

"Pretty much. I read their minds to find out their point of weakness, and then make a suggestion based around it."

"And I'm totally okay with that," Wade said. "You can read my mind any day or night."

"So," Logan mused, trying to figure out how this power of Talon's might work to the team's advantage, "if you were capable of issuing suggestions to the guards, would you be able to get them to turn on each other, or hand Bertelli over?"

"I sincerely doubt it," said Talon. "None of them will want to attack each other, and certainly none of them will want to hand their employer over; their fear of Mafia reprisal outweighs their fear of us. I might, however, convince some of them to leave. I could suggest that they have better things to be doing, for example. In my experience, most men, no matter what they're doing at the time, think they could be doing something more interesting."

"Like this?" Wade asked. His eyes narrowed in focus as he aimed a thought, and Talon frowned.

"I suppose. But I don't see why anybody would need _that_ much champag—oh wait, now I see. Yes, thank you for that rather colourful image."

"The bubbles are what make it so much fun."

James shook his head. Children. He was working with goddamn children. The sooner this mission was over, the better off they'd all be.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Corona Building, Secret Mafia Headquarters**

**Milan**

**23:55 HRS**

John Wraith sat at his ease in the back of the truck. Dukes was to his left, and Bradley to his right. On the opposite bench were Zero—no, Maverick, he recalled—and Victor. Victor was a hard one to understand. He was capable of civility, yet left Wraith with the impression that a beast was lurking permanently in the corners of his mind, waiting for everyone to turn their backs so it could strike. From the first moment he'd lain eyes on Victor, he'd made a promise to himself not to turn his back on that one. There was just something… wrong… about his whole demeanour. In combat, even simulated combat, he was like a rabid animal, barely recognising friend from foe. Unlike Maverick and Wade, there was no style or finesse to Victor's fighting; just pure, brute strength and base instinct.

For the second time that night, the truck halted. The engine was left running, but when Stryker knocked on the rear doors, Maverick hurried to open them for him. He was worse than a dog sometimes, that one. A dog running to lick his master's hand. Disgusting, really.

"We're here," Stryker said, climbing into the truck and pulling the doors to behind him. "I've reviewed the maps provided to us by Talon, and have worked out our best plan of attack. I believe we can bypass the ground-level security entirely by having John teleport everyone to the top floor."

"Aren't there cameras on the top floor?" Wraith asked.

"There's cameras on every floor, but Bradley should be able to take care of them."

The youngest mutant nodded. "Sure, cameras are no problem. But the moment they go dark, it's going to attract attention."

"Could you loop the feedback, so that it shows an empty room on the monitors?"

"Technically, yes," said Bradley. "But it takes focus to maintain that sort of loop, and I'm not sure I'll be able to hold a camera loop _and _hack into a computer, decrypt all the information, and then upload it to a foreign spy satellite all at the same time."

"However long you can give the team would be an advantage," Stryker said. "I'm confident that you can do it, Bradley."

"Alright. I'll try."

"Now," Stryker continued, "I've no doubt that there will be armed men on the top floor. John, do you think you could get Zero and Bradley into the room at the same time, so that Bradley can loop the cameras the moment Zero starts shooting?"

"Yeah, I'll give it a try," Wraith agreed. "Never tried teleporting more than one passenger before. I'm sure it'll be interesting."

"Good. Once you're in, come back to pick up Victor and Dukes, and then stay with Bradley. Victor, Dukes, the two of you are responsible for keeping any Mafia guards occupied. Zero, you'll keep anything from approaching Bradley whilst he works. Crippling-shots only for any company security guards, if at all possible."

Maverick nodded, and Stryker looked at his watch.

"Alright, we have two minutes to go. Bradley, as soon as you're done with the data transfer, give the word to John. I want everyone out of there ASAP, so we can head back to pick up the second team. And Bradley, if we're pursued during our get-away, I'll need you on traffic control."

"Yes, sir," Bradley said.

"I'll have my radio with me at all times, so if there are any problems at all, contact me immediately. I can't help you if I'm in the dark." Stryker looked once more at his watch. "Okay. Show time. John, you're up."

Wraith stood up and stepped forward, and Maverick and Bradley joined him. He put a hand on each man's shoulder and teleported them to the top of the Corona building. He felt them physically pulled through space behind him, causing him a greater than usual physical stress, but when they rematerialised both men were unharmed.

Immediately, Maverick's guns came up and started shooting, as Bradley closed his eyes and began to loop the security camera feed. At the same time, lights came on, giving Wraith a good look at what was happening. Two Mafia thugs were bleeding and likely dead on the ground, and a third took a head-shot and went down as a spray of blood burst from his head, painting the nearby wall a deep scarlet.

"Cameras are looping," Bradley said, and he hurried towards what appeared to be a large computer mainframe. "Starting the hack now."

Wraith teleported back to the truck, staying only long enough to report that all was proceeding as planned, and then returned to the top floor of the building with Victor and Dukes in tow. Both men took up defensive positions, one near each door, and settled in to wait. Dukes was carrying a large rifle, similar to the one strung around Wraith's neck, but Victor has shunned any weapon in favour of his own claws and natural healing ability. The elder of the two brothers didn't like guns all that much, preferring to throw himself into the thick of any fight and get his hands dirty.

The initial commotion and sound of gunfire had not gone unnoticed by those in the building. A group of men came rushing up the stairs from a lower floor, and a few more poured out of an elevator, weapons blazing as they approached. Maverick took his shots where he could, and Dukes opened fire with his semi-automatic. Victor merely rushed forwards and met his antagonists head on, using his huge hands to swipe for the throats of his aggressors.

Wraith turned away from the show of unbridled aggression, switching his attention instead to Bradley. There were a few beads of sweat forming on the young man's face, and his brows were knitted into a frown. As much as Wraith wanted to ask how the data transfer was going, he knew that Bradley needed to focus all of his concentration onto his task. Distractions would only delay him, and the agonised screams of dying men were distraction enough already. Each pained cry made the young mutant flinch, but he didn't open his eyes to see what was happening.

"I'm into the computer mainframe," Bradley said quietly. "God, it's so complex."

"Take your time, Bradley," Wraith said, trying to keep the man calm. "There's no rush. We're handling things just fine. It's better that your job's done right, than done fast."

Bradley nodded, and frowned even more. A few stray bullets hit the wall not far from the pair, and Wraith glanced across the room.

"Hey, Maverick, are you letting them through on purpose just to hurry us along?" he called.

"Sorry," Maverick said, but he didn't sound particularly sorry. "I'm better at shooting bullets than I am at stopping them. Maybe you should have Victor stand in front of Bradley. I'm sure that'll hurry him along just fine."

Wraith grumbled under his breath as Maverick continued aiming around Victor and Dukes. Then, without warning, an alarm began to sound throughout the entire building, and the white lights took on a blood-red hue.

"I had to let the cameras go," Bradley explained before he could be asked. "Before I did, I disabled all the elevators and the security locks on the doors. They'll have to take the stairwells to get up here. Should buy us a few extra minutes."

"Use them wisely, my friend," said Wraith.

"I got guards incoming!" Dukes shouted. "We're not supposed to hurt them, right?"

"We're not supposed to _kill_ them," Maverick corrected. "Aim low on the legs; shoot their feet off and they won't be able to advance."

Wraith shook his head. _Shoot their feet off._ Just like that. But then, that was Maverick all over. All he cared about was getting the job done. Unlike Victor, he didn't revel in the carnage; enemies were just people standing in his way. If they got out of his way, then that was all well and good, but if they remained in his line of fire, he'd shoot them and not even blink. He was about as cold as they came.

"I've accessed the data!" Bradley called. His words were punctuated by the _blam blam blam_ of Maverick's pistol as he took out lower legs and feet of guards approaching from Victor's side of the room.

"Little help here," Dukes called.

Wraith glanced around the tall man, and saw another swarm of security guards rushing forwards. He teleported immediately to behind the group of men, and shouted, "Hey, over here!"

The majority of them turned to aim at him, and he teleported back to Bradley's side as Dukes opened fire, aiming low at the ground. Half of these men, Wraith suspected, were going to wish they _were_ dead, when Team X was through blowing off their limbs.

"Where's that damn satellite?" Bradley muttered, his voice tired and angry.

"What's wrong?" Wraith asked.

"The British satellite. It's not where it should be."

"Talon," Victor growled from across the room. "She's betrayed us."

"No, wait." There was excitement in Bradley's voice now. "There it is. It's just moving into position. I'm trying to establish an uplink with the access codes Talon gave me. It worked! Beginning upload of data now."

"Great," said Dukes. "Can we get out of here?"

"Not until the upload's complete," said Bradley. "I have to manually keep this connection open myself, and we need to protect the mainframe until we go in case they just shoot it up to stop us taking what we need."

"You heard the man," Wraith said. "Just another couple of minutes."

"I have another wave of Mafia thugs incoming," Dukes said.

"Here, too," added Victor with a growl of pleasure.

Maverick reloaded his pistols, his face grim. "Alright. Let's make every shot count."

Wraith lifted his own gun. He'd hoped he'd get out of this one without having to shoot anyone, but fate seemed to have other ideas. He opened fire on one of the goons, and sent a silent prayer that Logan's team was doing better with their mission.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Bertelli's Safe House**

**00:06 HRS**

Bullets zipped through the air, tearing up trees, massacring flower beds, sending stone chippings flying off marble statues. James, taking cover behind a tree, glanced at Wade, who was sheltering behind a stone wall, and Talon, who was crouched behind the base of a fountain.

"Anything you could do to get these guys to stop shooting would be welcome," he yelled to the woman over the sound of gunfire.

"They won't be able to hear me," she yelled back. "Wait a minute… let me try something."

He had no idea what she was up to, so he merely waited. Though he would have been quite happy to rush forward and take out every one of those guards himself—their bullets would only cause temporary pain—Talon insisted that they treat this as a hostage situation, and not endanger Bertelli's family by engaging in wholesale slaughter.

An image slid into his mind, and he gasped in shock. Three bodies lay bloodied and still on the ground where the guards had been firing, and he recognised his own corpse next to those of Talon and Wade. Even though he knew it was an illusion, it still floored him for a moment. Then, as the guns fell silent, he realised what Talon had done. A mass illusion, designed to dupe the guards into thinking their aggressors were dead. Somehow, he knew that this illusion would only last a brief moment, and he mentally urged her to act before the guards could recover.

She stood up, exposing herself to the guards, and said, "You've just been given a promotion. Go home and celebrate."

One of the guards looked confused, but he wandered off wearing a dazed expression. _It was working!_

"It's your first anniversary," Talon continued. "You should be with your wife."

Another guard shook his head at the suggestion, as if trying to clear it from his mind. But then he tossed down his gun and walked away from the safe-house.

"I think you should visit your dying father," Talon said. "You'd never forgive yourself if he passed away without knowing how much you respect him."

One by one, the guards were falling like flies to her trap. But it wasn't enough. The image of the bodies was starting to fade in James' mind, and he saw several of the guards looking around in confusion as their minds cleared too.

"You aren't needed here! There are enough men to guard the safe-house tonight. Go home and have a drink!"

It was Talon's final suggestion before she was forced back down behind the fountain, but it took two of the men out of the fight as they lay down their weapons and walked away. Even over the sound of resuming gunfire, he could hear the British spy breathing heavily, and he knew she was starting to tire. It seemed her power, like Bradley's, drained her more quickly when she was forced to push her abilities.

"I count seven left," Wade called from across the courtyard. "I can take them."

"No, I can still convince more of them to leave," Talon replied.

"I don't think they'll fall for another false image so easily," James told her. "They'll be expecting it, next time. Besides, we're on a tight schedule. If we haven't wrapped this up by the time Stryker gets here, it could all go sideways."

Talon closed her eyes, her face appearing almost pained as she considered her options. He didn't envy her; she was out here, working alone, and had to answer to her own government if things went wrong. When she opened her green eyes again, though, they showed a focused determination.

"Very well," she said. "I've done all I can for the moment. You can handle the rest of the guards."

"Go, Wade," James said.

Wade smiled and stepped out from behind the wall, his katanas blurring as he moved. Bullets bounced and ricocheted around the courtyard, but one by one they found their marks, and when James counted seven dying gurgles of men who'd just been shot by their own reflected bullets, he peered out from around the tree and saw Wade standing unscathed a few feet away from a line of corpses. James had yet to figure out whether Wade enjoyed killing, enjoyed being challenged, or simply enjoyed playing with swords, but the end result was the same. If there was one thing Wade couldn't be faulted for, it was efficiency.

"All clear," the former merc called.

Talon peered over the top of the fountain, narrowing her eyes when she saw the bodies. She, James decided, was the biggest mystery of all. Why had she been so determined to send the guards away? They were Mafia. Criminals. Causes of or accessories to all manner of crimes and suffering. Had she wanted to minimise the body count because she found unnecessary killing distasteful, or because she'd been ordered to keep this low-key by her handlers?

"Good work, Wade," James said, joining the man in the courtyard. Talon followed close behind, and he turned to her. "All that's left now is to find whichever room Bertelli's cowering in, and haul his ass out of here. Do you think we can expect to encounter much more resistance?"

"No, I think—my God." Her green eyes widened as she looked past him, and he whirled around to find two men marching three children and a woman out of the house at gunpoint. One of the men had the youngest boy by the collar, a pistol pointed at his head, whilst the kid's older brother and sister looked on with pale-faced confusion. The woman, clad in a white nightgown, was sobbing. Tears streamed down her face, and a litany of unbroken Italian spilled from her mouth. When he recognised the man holding the weapon to her head as Stefano Bertelli himself, James let out a wordless snarl of anger.

"Get back," Bertelli shouted, his Italian accent heavily influenced by his time spent in America. He made a stabbing motion towards the woman with his gun. "Get back and let us pass, or they will die."

"If you don't let them go, I'm going to gut you myself," James snarled. He felt the bone claws extend from his hands, and one of the children let out a shriek.

"Logan, no!" said Talon, reaching her hand towards him as if to stop him from stepping forward. "He'll do it without hesitation. He'll kill his own wife and children to stop us from getting to him."

"If we let him slip through our grasp, we might never get another chance," Wade pointed out. "And next time we catch up with him, he may have surrounded himself with a hundred hostages. Better to strike now."

"It doesn't have to end like this," Talon said quietly. She turned her gaze to the last Mafia goon, the one with a gun pointing at the head of Bertelli's youngest child. "You won't hurt that boy," she said. "You won't hurt him, any more than you would hurt your own son. How would it feel, to point a gun at your son's head? To have him look you in the eyes and plead with you not to kill him? To see the fear of you etched into his face?"

"My… my son?" the man asked. He looked down at the tearful boy, and then in disgust at the gun in his hand.

"Stop this!" Bertelli screeched. "Stop it right now, or she dies!" His wife, held by her husband in a choke-hold, started sobbing even more loudly. "Alessandro, shoot the English woman!"

"But… my son!"

"Your son is not here, and if you do not do as I say, you will never see him again! Point your gun at the woman, and pull the trigger!"

Alessandro obeyed, pointing his pistol at Talon.

"Put your gun down and go home to your son," she said, her green eyes boring into the man's face. "Nobody else has to die here tonight."

"Alessandro, shoot her!" Bertelli insisted. "Shoot her, or this will be the fate of your son!"

There was a loud thunder-like crash, causing everyone in the courtyard to flinch. James saw Bertelli's wife slump to the ground, a spray of red peppering the ground from the bullet-hole in her head. The crimson blood started pooling even before she hit the dirt. It spread out, covering the woman's white nightgown, and from there, it completely dominated James' vision, descending like a red curtain draped around his mind.

Time slowed, and everything happened at once. The children started screaming. Bertelli reached for the one of them—the girl—to replace his dead hostage. James launched himself forwards with a roar of anger, drawing back his fist in an attempt to knock Bertelli out before he could harm anyone else. As he covered the distance of the courtyard, he heard the sound of another gunshot, and realised Alessandro had finally pulled the trigger of the gun aimed at Talon. James' fist collided with Bertelli's jaw, sending him flying backwards, the pistol falling from his hand. From somewhere behind he heard a tiny sound; _chink_. As Bertelli collapsed and his gun bounced away, Alessandro's head suddenly spurted scarlet drops of blood, and he too crumpled, his eyes glassy and lifeless before he'd even hit the ground.

Time returned to its normal speed. Bertelli was groaning on the ground, barely conscious, and his jaw looked dislocated. James turned to Alessandro, to confirm that the man definitely was dead. Finally he looked at his team-mates just in time to see Wade sheathe the katana that had deflected the bullet meant for Talon back to its source.

"So, what does that get me?" Wade asked the woman.

She ignored his question, pushing past him to hurry to the crying children. When she reached them, she knelt down in front of them.

"Shh," she said, the sound strangely soothing. "I know you're scared, but everything will seem better in the morning. Don't worry, I'll see to your mother. I can see how tired you are. Go back to sleep."

She caught the young boy as he collapsed into unconsciousness, and James moved just in time to catch the other two. Their small bodies were limp in his arms, and he wondered whether they slumbered truly, and what they dreamt of if they did. Surely, after tonight, they could dream nothing but nightmares. Could they?

"What are we supposed to do with the kids?" he asked Talon.

For the first time that night, she looked tired. "I'll take them back to England with me, put them into witness protection. Hopefully give them something resembling a normal life, until this whole thing has gone to trial."

"Wade, take these two," James said, nodding at the children in his arms. "I'll grab Bertelli, then radio Stryker and tell him to meet us here rather than on the road. It might take us too long to get there on foot, carrying everyone like this."

He waited until Wade had taken a child over each shoulder, then picked up the unconscious Mafia boss and slung him over his back like a sack of potatoes. Talon, with the third child securely in her arms, nodded, and they set off to the end of the mansion's long drive-way. Not one of them looked back at the line of corpses.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Abandoned Air Strip, Bologna**

**13:22 HRS**

James watched in silence as the airplane was loaded up with its cargo. Bertelli was lapsing in and out of consciousness, the pain in his jaw stirring him from the concussion to his head. Whenever James heard the man's groans, he clenched his fists and pushed down the writhing animal that wanted to erupted from within him and kill the bastard who'd shot his own wife in cold blood.

The trip to Bologna had been a twelve hour nightmare of un-air-conditioned hell. Neither Stryker nor Talon had wanted to risk taking the truck back through Milan and along the main road to Bologna, which meant taking it instead on a long loop of winding minor roads skirting around the edge of the Apennine Mountains—no easy feat, for so large a truck.

As the hour grew later, the temperature grew hotter, until finally, at midday, the inside of the truck felt like a furnace. Talon, who'd chosen to sit in the front with Stryker, ordered the truck stopped once every hour, to open the back doors and allow fresh air to come rushing in. All for the benefit of the still-sleeping children, of course. Had it not been for them, James suspected she would have been quite content to let Team X suffer in the heat. Not that he could blame her for that; they were grown men, and capable of tolerating harsh conditions… for a time.

Whilst cutting back across the width of the country towards Bologna, the truck had been stopped by a police patrol who claimed to be searching for a group of armed thieves. James, crouched in the back of the truck with his team of mutants, a Mafia crime lord and the guy's three sleeping children, had thought there would be more fighting at that point, but Talon—who turned out to speak fluent Italian—had managed to use her abilities to convince the officers that the truck was merely carrying a shipment of olive oil, and that the men really didn't want to upset her employer by making the delivery late. In the face of a hypnotic suggestion that the truck was actually a Mafia front vehicle, the patrol had let it pass without further question.

Now, two planes were waiting on the runway. The small, inconspicuous twinjet engine plane had been loaded with the three children and some of Talon's belongings, and was waiting to take the spy and her cargo back to England. The larger plane was being fuelled for the Atlantic crossing, and was due to take off as soon as Team X was ready. Bertelli had been manhandled aboard and secured by Dukes and Maverick, whilst Stryker was off talking with one of the pilots about the predicted weather conditions and expected landing time in America.

The rest of the team were preparing to leave. Wraith and Victor were stowing the bags of weapons in the cargo-holds, and Bradley was already aboard, probably napping to recover from the intensity of last night's action. Wade sat basking in the sun on the edge of the truck, a vacant look in his eyes and a happy grin on his face. James spotted Talon leaning casually in the shade against the wheel of her twinjet as she oversaw the loading of the plane, and he joined her.

"So," he said, because he really couldn't think of anything else to say. He felt suddenly drained, as if all the tension he'd been holding ever since arriving in Italy was pouring out of his body now that the danger was over. "What's next for you?"

She shrugged, and continued to survey the runway, looking at everything and nothing at once. "See where my government feels the world's best spy would be best placed, I suppose. Maybe I'll end up in Russia. I think I'd like that; I hear it's cold there."

"Will you get into trouble for Bertelli's wife, and the casualties at the Corona Building?"

"Maybe a little. Nothing I can't handle." She smiled at him. "I'm very good at getting myself out of trouble, one way or another. Don't worry about me. But what about you? First proper mission with your team a complete success… thanks to a little help from the world's best spy. Where do you think you'll be going next?"

"To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what to expect next," he admitted.

"You'll be fine, Logan," she said. "You'll make a good leader. You have a competent team. Not too shabby… for a bunch of cowboys."

"That's an interesting choice of words," he pointed out. "A 'competent' team. Not a 'good' one?"

"The word 'good' has a moral connotation that just does not work in this context. Your team aren't good—they're a broad spectrum of grey. But they're your shades of grey. Make of them what you will."

He nodded. A spectrum of grey. That was the best phrase he'd heard yet, to sum up Team X. From Bradley, an idealistic dreamer, through to the cold and aloof Maverick, right down to the volatile, animalistic Victor; his team had a little of everything, and it made him wonder about his own place within it.

The fuel pump was removed from the US plane's tank, and both Wraith and Victor climbed aboard. James saw Wade still sitting in a happy, vacant daze, oblivious to everything going on around him.

"Do I want to know what you're doing to him?" he asked Talon.

She smiled, green eyes dazzlingly bright in her slender face. "Just saying goodbye, and giving him my thanks for saving my life." She stood up and offered her hand. "Goodbye, Logan. It's been a pleasure working with you."

"Take care of yourself, Talon," he replied, shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly delicate. "Maybe we'll meet again someday."

"Perhaps. Anything's possible."

She made her way to the side of the plane and climbed the steps into the cabin. One of her entourage pulled up the steps behind her, and the door was sealed closed. The small plane's engines were started up, and it began to roll forwards, to the start of the smooth tarmac runway. James watched as the engines reached their full power, and then the plane was travelling forwards, engines screaming as the wing-flaps tilted and the plane lifted off the ground.

The sound of the small plane began to fade as it peeled off, beginning its two-hour flight back to London. When it was nothing but a speck in the sky, James walked over to Wade and snapped his fingers in front of the man's face until his eyes began to focus once more.

"Aww, what'd you do that for?" Wade complained. "We were just getting to the champagne."

"C'mon, Romeo," he replied. "We've got a long flight back home." And there was a beer with his name on it, waiting in the cool fridge in the rec room of Bunker Five.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Military Air Strip, USA**

**22:05 HRS**

Stryker sat enjoying the silence in the cabin as the plane touched down on American soil once more. He'd had his reservations about this mission—would Bradley be able to handle the data extraction? Would Victor manage to hold himself back from wholesale slaughter? Would the SIS operative have the necessary intel to allow them to carry out their mission?—but despite everything that could have gone wrong, the mission had been a success. There had been deaths, yes, but he considered those collateral damage. Some casualties were to be expected during an operation of this nature, and the team had performed admirably. They weren't perfect, not yet, but one day they would be.

The engines grew quieter as they were down-powered, and Team X began unbuckling themselves from their seats. Bertelli, propped up between Zero and Dukes, was unconscious again. When he'd woken up halfway through the journey complaining of pain in his jaw and head, Stryker had given him a sedative to knock him out for the remainder of the journey. The Mafia boss was less of an annoyance when he was unconscious.

He wished he could have brought the kids with him too, but he suspected trying to pry them out of Talon's claws would have been too much trouble. True, he could simply have ordered a couple of Team X to take the children—Victor and Zero would not have been averted to a little child-snatching—but he wanted to maintain good relations with the British government, and attacking one of their spies, even if she was a mutant, would have put their backs up and made them far less inclined to help out again in the future.

Besides, next to Bradley's data, the testimony of a few children was irrelevant.

"MPs will be waiting to take Bertelli into custody," Stryker said to Logan.

Logan merely nodded, to indicate he'd handle the exchange. Team X's captain had been silent on the journey back from Italy. Not that he was much of a talker in the first place, but he'd been even quieter than usual. He looked like a man who was running things through his head, trying to work them out methodically and logically. Stryker suspected Logan wasn't happy with the death of Bertelli's wife—he was the type of man who took failure personally when he was in charge. It was that made him such a good leader; such a good tool. Emotional men were easier to control; their behaviour could be anticipated better than those who felt beholden to nothing, who possessed no moral compass.

The cabin door was opened, and Stryker left the plane, followed by Team X, who had to carry Bertelli out between them. Sure enough, a dozen uniformed military police were waiting to take custody of the prisoner. Each one of them was armed with a rifle, but Stryker suspected that, after Logan's treatment, Bertelli wouldn't be in any state to object to imprisonment. Two of the MPs approached Dukes, who was practically carrying the Mafia boss, and produced cuffs and shackles. Yes, there was certainly no question of Bertelli escaping this time.

"Major Stryker, sir," said a voice. Stryker saw an airforce lieutenant approach through the crowd of MPs.

"What is it, lieutenant?" he asked, knowing he sounded curt but not caring enough to do something about it. He was tired and hungry, and looking forward to the trip back to Bunker Five so that he could get a few hours of shut-eye before writing his reports to Washington.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but whilst you were away, your wife contacted the switch with an urgent request to speak to you. Bunker Five relayed that message to us, so that I could advise you upon your return."

"Did my wife say what she wanted to speak to me about?" It was very unlike Sarah to contact him at work. She only had a generic switch-board number; she didn't even know where Bunker Five was.

"The message we received was 'family emergency.' I'm afraid I didn't get any more than that from Bunker Five, sir."

"Do you have a phone I could use? Somewhere private?"

"Of course, sir. Please follow me."

He left Team X and followed the young lieutenant into the airbase. He was led down several blessedly cool, winding corridors, to a communications office. Two airmen were manning it, but when the lieutenant gestured for them to leave, they stepped out of the room.

"This phone has a direct outside line," the lieutenant said, handing a black receiver over. "Take all the time you need, sir."

Stryker waited until the door was closed, then dialled the number of his home. Home. The word was a mockery of what that house was to him. He spent most of his time at Bunker Five. The military installation was more home to him than the house where his wife and son lived. And for the first time, he was truly beginning to regret that fact.

He started counting the rings, tapping the receiver with his finger, trying to push down the nerves which wormed their way through his stomach. It was late night… perhaps Sarah was already in bed, sound asleep. Or perhaps not. His mind automatically started coming up with worst case scenarios. Sarah had been in an accident. Sarah and Jason had been in an accident. Jason was in hospital. Jason was in a coma. Jason was, God forbid, dead.

"Hello?" Sarah's voice was quiet, croaky, assaulted by static on the line, but it was the most wonderful thing Stryker had heard in his whole life.

"Sarah, it's me."

"William? Thank God! I tried to get through to you so many times, but they kept telling me you were unavailable. They finally let me leave a message, but I wasn't sure they'd pass it on."

"It's okay, Sarah," he said, trying to comfort her. She sounded absolutely distraught. Normally she was stoic, unflappable. The wives of servicemen and officers had to be strong, to stand being separated from their loved ones, to cope with the possibility that one day, their husbands might never come home. "Just tell me what's wrong, and I'll make it right."

"It's Jason…" she said, and Stryker's heart lurched sickeningly. Jason was his pride and joy; Stryker had high hopes that the boy would carry on the family's military tradition by following his father into the army. Now, if something had happened to Jason… Stryker didn't know how he would cope. He waited for Sarah to continue, but she'd taken to sobbing, her words broken and heart-wrenching.

"Sarah, Sarah, start at the beginning," he said, trying to soothe her with his voice when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and hold her until she quieted.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and then began with a shaky voice. "It was the day before yesterday. Jason was at school, and some of the other children were calling him names. Because of his eyes." Stryker nodded to himself. Jason's eyes—one blue, one green, but both perfectly normal—were a constant source of teasing from the other children at his school. "The teachers… they said Jason made them see spiders crawling all over their bodies. The children started screaming, panicking. Some of them were hurt."

"How did Jason get his hands on spiders, Sarah?" he asked, not understanding how his son could have pulled off such a feat.

"There weren't any spiders! The teachers didn't see a single one. But the children were tearing at their own skin to try and get the spiders off. The teachers thought they were having fits. They said Jason made them see spiders inside their heads, William. They think our son's a… a…"

"Mutant," he finished. His fear and panic had turned to an icy numbness that spread out from his stomach to the furthest reaches of his limbs. His son. A mutant? A freak of nature? No. It couldn't be. The teachers must be wrong. Maybe the children were lying, trying to get Jason in trouble. Children could be so cruel, at times. Yes, that was it. This was all some big misunderstanding.

"I don't know what to do, William," Sarah said. "The school won't let him go back. Jason just sits up in his room all day. He won't come out, he won't talk to me… he won't even eat. I think he's afraid we'll stop loving him because of what he is."

"It's okay, I can fix this," he said, with false confidence. "I'll be home tomorrow. We'll talk about this as a family. We'll get Jason the help he needs."

"I don't want to lose him," Sarah sobbed.

"We won't lose him. Everything will be fine. You'll see. Just try to hold things together until I get home. I'll make this right."

She sniffed, and he could almost feel her pulling herself together. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow then. I love you, William."

"I love you too," he replied.

He hung up, feeling the numbness in his stomach spreading to his mind, his limbs taken over by a strange sort of lethargy. And as he sat on the edge of the desk, struggling with his numbness and fear, a tiny voice spoke up in the back of his mind, reminding him of Doctor Cornelius' words.

_The propensity for mutation is passed along by the father. Your son is a mutant. A freak. You did this to him. You're flawed, at the genetic level. It's all your fault._

It was his fault. He was the reason why his son was a mutant. He collapsed into a chair, overwhelmed by the guilt, the shame, his chest feeling tight, as if a great weight was crushing it. What would his superiors say when they found out his son was a mutant? What would they do when they realised Stryker carried the mutant gene, that his child, and all of his children, were cursed? The once-proud Stryker line had been reduced to this.

He knew what had to be done. Nobody could ever know about this. Nobody could be allowed to find out. If they knew what his son was, they would accuse Stryker of having conflicting interests, of having sympathies for the freaks he commanded. No, this must be kept a secret, at least until a cure could be found for Jason. Possibly even longer than that. Stryker had to be stronger now, harder than ever before. He had to play the part of doting father. He had to put on his mask, get back out there and do his job, whilst pretending everything was okay. Pretend that his entire world hadn't just been turned on its head.

He stood up, and straightened his uniform. His wife needed him to be strong. His superiors needed him to be strong. His _country_ needed him to be strong. So, strong he would be.

The lieutenant was waiting for him outside in the corridor. He stood to attention as Stryker approached.

"Everything alright, sir?"

"Yes, yes," Stryker replied, feigning a light mood. "You know how women are. The car breaks down and it's all tears and the end of the world. Women and motors, lieutenant; they just don't go together."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied with a knowing smile. "Should I see to rooms for you and your team, sir?"

"No, that won't be necessary. My men will be returning to Bunker Five for a little R&R, and I have a few days of leave coming up. I'll leave the custody of the prisoner to you, lieutenant."

"Aye, sir. We'll see that he lives long enough to stand trial and answer for his crimes."

"Very good. Now, please have your transport vehicle meet us outside. I'd like my team to be back at Bunker Five as soon as possible."

The lieutenant saluted and left to make the necessary arrangements, and Stryker stood for a moment in the silence of the corridor. There had to be a way out of this mess. Some way to makes things right again. Somehow, he had to find a cure for his son. It was, after all, a man's duty to look after his family.


	6. Family Matters

No I in Team

* * *

"_One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while one is still alive." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_6. Family Matters_

**Location: Bunker Five Recreation Room**

**15:30 HRS**

The TV blared quietly in the corner of the room; Elvis Presley was on stage, singing about his blue suede shoes. James, who was stretched out on one of the couches, ignored the music, just as he ignored the barely-touched cold beer nestled in his hands. The only thing he saw in his mind's eye was Bertelli's villa, the floor liberally coloured red, the sharp smell of blood saturating the warm air. He played a single scene over and over again inside his mind, trying to figure out how it could have ended differently, and Bertelli's wife died a hundred times as he tried and failed to save her.

His father had taught him that women should be respected and protected. Though he'd known many women who were, mentally and emotionally, every bit as strong—and indeed, sometimes even _stronger_ than—men, they were usually physically weaker. His father had said that a man should do everything within his power to help a lady in need, and should always stand up to protect a woman if she needed assistance.

In Italy, James had failed. He hadn't believed Talon, when she'd said Bertelli would shoot his own wife and kids to save his own worthless hide. He'd mistakenly acted under the assumption that all men had been told by their fathers to respect women, and that no man would ever take the life of the woman he loved out of sheer cowardice. That mistake had cost a woman her life, leaving three innocent children essentially orphaned.

He knew, now, what he should have done. He should have rushed Bertelli the moment he'd spotted the man. Perhaps, if he'd appeared more of a threat, Bertelli would have turned his weapon on _him_ instead of the mother of his children. But the indecision, the attempt to talk instead of fight, had almost gotten Talon and one of the children killed. It was small consolation that the kids had been saved. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the benefit of hindsight, whilst standing in that Italian courtyard, facing the murderous bastard.

"You look pissed." Victor dropped down on the other couch, sprawling out over it. The beer in his hand was almost empty. "That's your pissed face, right there."

"I'm not pissed," James scowled at his brother. He didn't have a 'pissed' face… did he?

"Riiight. You're just sat here, on your own, holding a beer you're not even going to drink, glaring at Elvis Presley like he just killed your best friend, completely ignoring the fact that you could be playing poker with the team and taking all Wraith's money off him… and you're not pissed."

"That's right."

"Is this about what went down in Italy?"

James shook his head, but he knew Victor wouldn't leave it alone. Once he'd picked up a scent, he was like a damn bloodhound.

"I don't see what you're so cut up about," Victor continued. "Mission successful. We got our guy and saved the glorious Land of the Free from yet another dangerous foe. Why get your panties in a twist over a few dead bodies? People die all the time."

"I know. But they shouldn't die because of _us_," said James, and Victor snorted, rolling his eyes. He'd heard this before. "The wars are bad enough, but at least it's just soldiers. At least there's a clear line, in war; us, and them. What we did in Italy… civilians got killed. Sure, you could say that some of them deserved it. But not all of them. Not Bertelli's wife. Not those security guards. They weren't soldiers, Victor… they were cannon-fodder. And I'm beginning to wonder if we've made the right decision."

"Bullshit," growled Victor. His forehead wrinkled as a frown spread across his face. "This is just you being you, Jimmy. You're a master at sabotaging your own happiness. Let me tell you how this will go. You'll agonise for a while about 'doing the right thing' because your conscience starts kicking you the moment anything good happens to you, like it purposely wants you to be miserable. Just like you agonised about running out on your wife, before you joined me in France during World War One, just like you agonised about joining the forces in 'Nam. And no matter how good it gets for us, you'll always find a way to screw it up, because you won't let yourself be happy, and you'll drag me along to follow your miserable ass around. Well, not this time, Jimmy. If you think you've made a mistake, then go ahead and quit. But I'm staying. Here, we're with our own kind. We're _valuable_. It's in Stryker's best interests to keep us sweet. There are worse people to fight for than the US military."

"That's just it, Victor. We don't have to fight at all, if we don't want to."

"Sure we do, Jimmy. We're mutants, and we live in a world where to be different is to be hated and feared. Well, we finally found a place where we can be ourselves. So either get on board and start acting like what you really are, or leave before you drag the rest of us down with you." Victor drank the rest of his beer, then stood up. "I'm getting another drink. Are you with us, or are you gonna run away again?"

James watched his brother head off towards the bar, and sighed. In some ways, Victor was right. This was the best gig they'd had in a long time—the killing of civilians notwithstanding—and it felt good to be able to relax, to not have to hide who and what he was. Living a lie was exhausting, but to admit what he was to non-mutants usually meant fear and loathing, sometimes with pitch-forks. Normal folks saw mutants as little more than glorified monsters; they didn't care that James had fought for their freedom and independence countless times. They didn't care about the blood he had shed for them, and the blood he had lost for them. All they cared was that he was different. He didn't age, and he had bone-claws, and that made him a freak.

He glanced around the rec room. Wraith, Dukes, Bradley and Maverick were playing poker again; Bradley laughed as Wraith told a joke, not realising it was just another distraction technique. Perhaps Talon was right; they were his shades of grey. But they were more than that. They were half-formed lumps of clay. James, if he stayed, could do his best to mould them into finished products. He could teach them about more than fighting; he could teach them about mercy, and that it wasn't weakness to show it. He could show them a better way, than the way of a killer.

Leaving the TV, he stood up and walked over to the game table. Wraith glanced up as he approached.

"Logan. You interested in losing some of your money to me?"

James glanced at the pile of notes in front of Wraith, and smiled. It was time to end the teleporter's winning streak. "Deal me in."

He took a seat and pulled a cigar from his pocket, lighting it up and taking a long drag. Some people said that smoking was bad for you, but he figured it couldn't be _that_ bad; he'd been doing it for over a hundred years, and he was still perfectly healthy. Beer and cigars—possibly the secret to a long life.

"I'm telling you," said Wraith, continuing the conversation the group had been having before James had joined them, "there's something off with Stryker. Did you see his face, when he joined us at the airstrip's car pool? He looked like someone had just killed his puppy."

"Probably getting shit off the brass for the blood-bath we left behind in the Corona Building," said Maverick, casually glancing at his cards. James picked up his cards and looked at his hand, but it wasn't anything special. Not yet, anyway.

"Nah, man," Wraith replied, "the brass couldn't have known what went down in Italy. And Stryker didn't even come back here to write reports on our mission. Don't you find that a bit weird? Since when does he just take off without a word?"

"Since he's our superior officer."

"You guys," Dukes grumbled, "are you gonna play, or just talk all night?"

"Speaking of which," James mused, as Victor returned with a fresh beer and sat down to watch the game, "it's awfully quiet in here." He looked around the room and saw Wade sitting further away, pen in hand and paper on the table in front of him. "Whatcha doing, Wade?" he called.

"Writing."

"I didn't know you could write," said Wraith, and Bradley grinned.

"One of my many skills"

"What are you writing?" asked Bradley.

"A letter. To Talon. Chicks go in for that whole sensitive writing-letters crap, right? By the way, how do you spell 'effervescent'?"

"Man, do you even know her name?" said Wraith.

"Sure. Talon."

"Her _real_ name, genius," James clarified.

"Why does that matter?"

"Well," said Wraith, "it might help you to send her a letter if you knew her real name. And her address might be useful, too."

Wade shrugged. "How many people can there be with the name and address of 'Talon, MI6, England'?"

James shook his head. No doubt, now, that Wade was delusional. The world he was living in truly must be a special place.

"Look," said Wraith, "forget about some girl you only met once; grab a beer and come play poker with your pals."

"I'm only your pal when you want to take my money, John."

"Hey, there's just as much chance of you beating me, as there is me beating you. Now c'mon and I'll deal you in to the next round."

"Well, alright. I suppose a couple of games couldn't hurt. It's not like I have anything else to spend my money on right now."

Both Wade and Victor joined the poker circle, and Wraith dealt out a new round. James glanced at his brother, and Victor tipped his beer bottle to him. James nodded. For now, Victor was right. For now, he could play happily families, and try to lead the team as best he could. It wasn't as if he was trapped here forever, after all; he could leave at any time he chose.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Stryker Family Residence**

**New Jersey**

**17:30 HRS**

William Stryker considered himself a sensible individual, a down-to-earth man well-grounded in the present and not given to flights of wild imagination. It was therefore a surprise when, for the first time in four years, he walked up the front path to his family's home and did not immediately feel welcome. The front of the house seemed to leer at him knowingly, the dark drapes making evil, glaring eyes out of the rectangular windows, the zigzag cornice hanging from the veranda giving the doorway the appearance of a gaping maw that threatened to swallow him whole.

Behind, he heard the car that had brought him here leave; the driver wouldn't come back until Stryker called for a pick-up. And, as the sound of the car engine died away, so did his only hope of retreat. Not that he would consider running from his responsibilities; a man who ran away was a coward, and if there was one thing William Stryker did not consider himself, it was a coward.

He strode up the front path, taking a deep breath to straighten his body and give him an appearance of confidence. In truth, he was afraid of what he would find within the confines of his mockery of a home, but he knew, better than most, that the fastest way to let your fears control you was to acknowledge them. The best way to deal with fear was with sheer stubborn-headed determination and a desire to get the job done.

When he reached the front door, he reached into his pocket for his key. This wasn't the sort of neighbourhood in which people needed to lock their doors, and at one time, Stryker would not have given an unlocked door a second thought. But then, he'd learnt about mutants, and made Sarah promise to lock the door whenever she was home without him. It was a poor barrier to keep out mutants, but better than no barrier at all. Now, however, he had to face a very unfortunately possibility; that the lock on his family door wasn't keeping mutants out, so much as it was keeping them in. Protecting not his family from the world, but the world from his family.

The door opened, and he was met with a resounding silence, the only sound that of the large grandfather clock, quietly ticking away at the bottom of the stairs. An antique from her grandmother's youth, Sarah loved that clock, said it made her feel safe, like the ghosts of her parents and grandparents were watching over her through it. Crazy idealistic nonsense… but it was her crazy idealistic nonsense, and he loved her for it.

"Sarah?" he called, stepping through the hallway, his footsteps quietened by the long rug covering the well-polished floorboards. "Sarah, I'm home. Are you here?"

"William?" Her voice came from the kitchen, and she appeared a moment later, covered in flour up to her elbows, her flowery apron dusted with white. Her face was pale, her brunette curls pulled hurriedly back into a messy bun, and she had a smear of flour on one cheek. "I… I wasn't expecting you home for another hour. Dinner isn't ready yet."

"It's alright, Sarah," he said. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, holding her close for a long moment, drawing strength and comfort from her, and giving it in return.

"Oh, your uniform…" She glanced down at his now flour-covered fatigues.

"I can get changed later. Don't worry about it." He looked at the stairs, at the row of doors pulled closed along the landing. "Is he up there?"

Sarah nodded. "Hasn't come down since they refused to let him back to school. He won't talk and barely eats or drinks."

"Tell you what, why don't I help you get dinner ready? You can tell me everything that's happened, and then we'll see what Jason has to say for himself."

His wife paled further, but nodded her agreement, and together they returned to the kitchen. Stryker found a strange sort of solace in the rhythmical _chop chop chop_ of his knife as he prepared the vegetables, and as Sarah continued rolling pastry she regaled him with the story of Jason's… incident. There wasn't much she could add that she hadn't told him by phone, but this time her recount was calmer. She didn't burst into tears, and her voice remained steady as she talked about what had happened in the playground.

After that, he asked her about the little things; had she read anything interesting at her book club lately? Were the neighbours finally keeping their dog off the lawn? Had Father Mulgrew decided what charity to support for Christmas this year? She answered each question with less enthusiasm than normal, her voice subdued by sad tones.

At last the pie was made, and put in the oven to cook, and the moment Stryker had been trying to delay as long as possible was finally looming in front of him. He told his wife to sit down in the living room, then went to the bottom of the stairs, and called up.

"Jason, this is your father. We need to talk. Come down to the living room, young man."

He returned to his wife, joining her on the sofa, and it didn't take long for the patter of small feet to appear on the stairs. Jason might sulk in his room for Sarah, but he knew better than to keep his old man waiting. Stryker had taught him more respect than that.

Jason's small, pale face appeared around the doorframe, his mismatched eyes darting to and fro as he looked first at his mother, then at his father. Stryker waited patiently, knowing that this situation, and how he dealt with his son's incident, would set the tone for their entire future relationship. Perhaps it didn't have to end in tears. Perhaps Jason could still have a life, and a successful military career. He just had to make sure he never used his mutant powers again.

"Sit down, son," Stryker said, gesturing to the comfortable armchair. Normally, the armchair was Stryker's, his throne when he was home, left empty when he wasn't here, but he felt that some sort of sacrifice was required, to show his son that this situation was under control. Jason could sit in the armchair throne, this once.

The boy perched on the edge of the chair, his feet dangling off the edge. His socks were dirty underneath, almost black; probably hadn't been changed in days. Stryker tried to keep the grimace from his face. He'd drilled neatness and routine into his son, just as he would any soldier, and to see the boy's socks dirty, his short hair ruffled and unkempt, his shirt incorrectly buttoned up, was a slap in the face. A flicker of angry fire licked at his mind. Sarah had always been too soft on the boy, letting him get away with too much. If she'd been a little more firm with him, he never would have shut himself away and become so unkempt. Children, like soldiers, needed a firm hand to guide them and set boundaries, and mutants were no different. It irked him, to realise he was having more success with a team of untrained mutants, than he was with his own son.

"Jason," he said, "your mother told me about what happened at school."

"Yes, sir," Jason whispered, both eyes on the ground And that, too, angered Stryker. He'd always told his son to keep his head high, to be proud of who he was, to ignore the bullies at school who teased him because of his eyes. Strykers did not cringe or lower their eyes, like servants.

"I want you to tell me what happened."

"I didn't mean to do it," said Jason immediately. "It was an accident. I just wanted them to stop teasing me. I wanted to teach them a lesson. You said I should stand up to bullies and not let them push me around. I… I thought, how would they like it, if everybody was pointing and laughing at them?"

Stryker closed his eyes for a moment, the playground scene playing out in his mind, Jason surrounded by a bunch of bigger, older boys. It was always the bigger ones who teased and bullied him. And Stryker had told Jason to confront them about their behaviour, but the boy was so small, not built for physical fights. It was only natural then, wasn't it, that he'd lashed out with his mind, using a power he'd never known he had?

"Why spiders?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at his son.

"I saw Gerry screaming once, when he put his hand through a spider web on the jungle gym. I knew he didn't like them. I knew he'd be embarrassed if the other kids saw him screaming like a girl over a little spider." Despite Jason's downcast gaze, there was a tone of defiance in his voice; he sounded almost proud of how he'd shown up those bullies.

Insidious little voices began to whisper inside Stryker's mind. Yes, his son was a mutant, but he wasn't one of those different-looking ones. At least Jason looked human. And perhaps his power could be put to some use. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise; unless his son filled out as he grew up, he probably wouldn't have an easy time in the army, like his old man. But there were other ways Jason could serve his country; just look at Team X. Each one of them a powerful weapon in his own right. And the British spy, Talon, had been one of them too, with abilities similar to Jason's. He'd heard Team X talking about her powers on the plane back to the US, but even before that, he'd seen her in action, when she'd convinced the Italian police to let the truck carrying Bertelli pass without inspection. A mutant who could make others see what he or she wanted was a powerful tool indeed.

But… no. That sort of thing was all well and good for ordinary mutants, but not for Jason. No matter how useful he proved to be, it could potentially end Stryker's career. And if his career was ended, he wouldn't be able to protect his wife, and his son, and his country, against the growing mutant threat. The best thing to do would be to find a cure. To put the scientists at Bunker Five to work on curing mutation, so that Jason could be normal, so that any mutant who threatened the American way of life could be effectively neutralised. He wasn't an unfair man; he was willing to let those mutants who wished to serve their country continue to do so, to be the tools of humanity that nature intended, but the rest of them—the anarchists, the trouble-makers, the ones who thought that having special powers gave them special rights—there would be no mercy for them.

"Jason, have you used your powers again since the school yard?" he asked. Jason's head quickly shook from side to side. "Have you tried?"

"No, I swear, I haven't tried, sir!"

The panicked tone in Jason's voice told Stryker that his son was telling the truth. The boy knew better than to lie; Stryker had drilled that lesson into him at a very early age. Only cowards told lies. Real men stood up and accepted responsibility for their actions, even if it meant being punished. Real men weren't afraid of punishment, when it was deserved. It helped to build character.

"Alright," he said. "Go on up to your room. Your mother and I need to talk. Dinner is in half an hour, and I expect to see you washed and in clean clothes, ready at the dinner table in twenty five minutes."

"Yes, sir," Jason said, hurrying out of the room and back up the stairs. He'd finally realised that sulking wasn't going to get him anywhere. Really, Sarah should have seen to this in his absence. Couldn't a man leave his family home for a short time without everything going to hell?

"What are we going to do, William?" Sarah asked, her eyes full of hope and fear. She looked to him to make everything right, to fix the problems she could not. Perhaps he'd been too hard on her, expected too much of her. She was Jason's mother, not his father, and it was unfair of Stryker to ask her to take on a man's share of the parenting role, as well as her own.

He reached out to take her hand in his, and squeezed it comfortingly. "We're going to find a cure for our son. We can fix this, Sarah. Jason will have a normal life. I swear it."

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Bunker Five outdoor shooting range**

**10:30 HRS**

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

James watched as six bullets hit the centre of the training dummy's head with unerring precision. Without even a glimmer of a smile, Maverick holstered his pistol and surveyed his handiwork with a cool-eyed nod.

"Ten bucks to anyone who can match that," the sharp-shooter said.

Alright, I'm game," said Wraith. He stepped up to the firing line and raised his pistol, sighting for a moment, then fired six shots. They weren't bad shots, either; three in the chest, one right shoulder and two left arm. Not bad, but not good enough to win him the money.

"My turn," said Dukes. The pistol looked comically small in his large hand, more like a child's toy than a real weapon. He smelled of calm confidence which didn't change as he fired the gun six times in succession. Again, his shots were decent; two head-shots and four in the chest.

"Not bad," said James.

"But could be better," said Zero. "Bradley, you're up next."

"Yeah, right, like I could even hit the target, never mind the head." But he managed three hits, and looked pleased by his accomplishment. The remaining three bullets flew wide, hitting trees. "Hey, I hit it!"

"Barely," Zero scoffed.

"Move over, kid," said Victor, nudging Bradley aside as he lifted his gun. He barely even bothered to aim, merely peppered the target with six bullets which hit completely different areas.

"Interesting aiming method," said Zero. His tone wasn't quite as scornful this time; he was more wary of Victor than he was of Bradley.

"I call it 'the collateral damage style.'"

"I can see why. Logan? You think you could manage a couple of hits?"

"Sure, Maverick," he replied. He knew why the man had suggested target practice for today; he wanted to show off his skills. Stryker was still away and the major's number one boot-licker was starting to feel neglected. This was simply a way of stroking his own ego, by proving he was a better shot than anyone else on the team.

He stepped up to the line and sighted down the short barrel of the pistol, then pulled the trigger. As he saw the first bullet hit the throat, he adjusted his aim a tiny amount and fired again, resulting in a head-shot. He must have moved his hand between shots, possibly because of the small amount of recoil, because his next one clipped the edge of the target at ear-level, and the last three hit the right shoulder.

"Guess we know which brother got all the accuracy in the family," said Zero. "But not good enough to win my money." James smiled to himself. By Zero's standards, that had barely been an insult at all. Obviously, he hadn't been expecting all of James' bullets to hit the target. James didn't particularly care about taking Zero's money, but he'd settle for seeing the man's ego deflated a little. Luckily, there was one person who _might_ be a good enough shot to do just that. He glanced around for the last member of Team X and saw him leaning atop a locker, pen in hand once more, his tongue poking out of one side of his mouth; clear indication of deep concentration from Wade Wilson.

"Wade," he called, "you're up."

"Up for what?" came the absent-minded reply.

"Maverick says you're a crap shot. He doesn't think you can hit the same area of a target six times, like he can."

"Uh-huh. Tell him he's a dick."

"C'mon," said Wraith, "what's more important than taking Zero's money from him?"

"Effervescent. How the hell do you spell it?"

"Tell you what, get your ass over here and take Zero's money, and I'll write that damn letter for you, effervescence and all."

"Hmm, I suppose you _do_ have neat handwriting." Wade shoved his paper and pen into his pocket and picked up the last pistol from the locker. Bradley handed him a box of ammo and he loaded the gun, then stepped up to the line. He lifted the gun, narrowed his eyes at the target, and at the last moment lowered his aim by a centimetre before pulling the trigger six times.

"Damn," said Wraith, his eyes travelling down to the lower half of the target.

"That's hardly a fatal area," Zero said, rolling his eyes, trying his best not to admit defeat.

"Smaller target than a head, though," Wade pointed out. "Even smaller on some men than others. Anyway, same area of a target, six bullets. I believe you owe me ten bucks, Zee."

"Another ten says you can't do it again," said Zero.

"If you want to waste your money, be my guest."

Wade reloaded his pistol and Zero set off across the field to put up a fresh dummy. As James watched, Wade lifted his gun and pointed at the unwary Zero's head. "Wade," he said, putting a warning into the single word.

Wade smiled. "Bang bang," he said, and lowered the weapon. "Oh, don't give me that look, Logan. You can't tell me you wouldn't like to see him eating lead. I know you don't like him."

"I don't like _you_ either," James pointed out. "But that doesn't mean I'd let Maverick put a bullet in your head."

"Touché."

Bradley put down his own weapon and leant against the locker. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to live a normal life?"

"What's normal?" Wraith countered. "There's guys out there who think it's perfectly normal to dress up in a monkey suit and work a 9-5 job and go home to a white picket fence, and then other guys who'd go insane if you gave them the all-American dream. Even the norms don't agree on what makes them 'normal.'"

"I guess I just wonder what it would be like to _not_ blow out street lights by accident when I sneeze."

"Everything we can do, whether it's blowing out electrical circuits, teleporting a dozen miles, or deflecting a bullet… they're gifts, Bradley. You can do something unique, that nobody else can. That makes you special. It makes us _all_ special. Yours powers are a blessing."

"Sometimes they feel more like a curse," Bradley admitted.

Wraith rested a hand on the young man's shoulder. "In which case, think yourself lucky that your curse is invisible, and that you can pass. I seen a guy once with green skin, and eyes like a lizard. The people in his home town feared him, so they stuck him in a cage."

"What happened to him?"

The teleporter shrugged. "Probably died. After I saw what those people did to their mutants, I wasn't going to stick around. Got myself out of there pronto. Do I wish I coulda done something to help the guy? Sure, but I was young, and unsure of my own powers and my own place in the world. I wasn't about to stick my neck out for some lizard-looking guy I'd never met before."

James listened in silence. In his experience, a man didn't bring up something like that, and talk about his feelings of a situation, unless it was weighing heavily on his mind. By the sound of it, the case of the mutant on the cage had been weighing on John Wraith's mind for quite some time.

"How old were you when you discovered you were a mutant?" Bradley asked.

"Ugh, the old 'how I discovered my powers' story," said Wraith. "That's a tale best told over a cold beer. Tell you what, run and get us some from the fridge in the rec room, and I'll tell you all about it."

"Beer? At ten-thirty in the morning?" Bradley asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"It's ten-thirty in the evening somewhere," Wraith shrugged.

"Uzbekistan," said Wade. "It's ten-thirty PM in Uzbekistan right now.

"You're a fountain of useless knowledge, Wade. Or a fountain of made-up bullshit. Either way, I salute your useless bullshit."

"Guys," said Logan, interrupting the good-natured insulting, "as captain, I gotta point out that beer and weapons practise just don't go together."

"That's alright, I'm done with weapons practise for the day," Wraith grinned.

"And I'll be done with weapons practise as soon as I've finished winning back the fifty bucks Zero took off me in the last poker game," added Wade.

"And I doubt any amount of practice will improve my skill with a gun," said Bradley.

"Not like we get many chances to do what we want at ten-thirty in the morning," Dukes said. He'd got an earful off Stryker one day for turning up late to team training because he'd been busy flirting with Gina after breakfast, and had been sore about it ever since.

"C'mon, Logan," said Wade. "Cat's away; we mice gotta play. You've had us training every day whilst Stryker's been MIA… maybe it's time to let off a little steam."

James sighed. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. But on the other hand, he _had_ been pushing them hard in Stryker's absence. Plus, he was genuinely interested in hearing of Wraith's early years. He decided to loosen the reins a little… just for today.

"Alright, Bradley. Head back to the barracks and tell the first soldier you see to bring us some beers."

"And chips," Wade added.

Twenty minutes later, Logan, Bradley, Wraith, Dukes and Victor were standing on the practise range, beers in hand, watching Wade win back another ten bucks from Maverick, who didn't look pleased at being proved wrong a second time.

"How'd you get to be such a good shot?" Wraith asked. "I never even seen you use a gun, until Logan took your swords off you."

Wade shrugged. "All part of my _mysteeeeerious_ origin story. But I believe you're the one with a tale to tell. That _is_ the reason we're all drinking before midday, right?"

"Yes," Bradley agreed. "I'd like to know how you discovered your powers, John. If you don't mind telling, of course."

Victor snorted. "Sure, why don't we all sit in a circle and sing kumbaya and talk about our feelings?" He picked up a pistol and ambled over to the shooting line. "Let me know when the touchy-feely crap is over."

"Victor," James warned.

His brother waved his gun dismissively. "I'm only aiming at a damn target, Jimmy. And you know as well as I do that a single beer's nothing more than a glass of water to us."

James didn't bother trying to argue. It was true; because of his and Victor's enhanced constitution, it took a hell of a lot of alcohol to get either of them drunk. There was certainly no question of Victor hitting anybody whilst on his first beer. Well… not hitting them _intentionally_, at least.

"I can't believe you're all drinking, and it's not even lunch time," Zero scoffed.

"Hey, look, Zee," said Wade, bending down to pick up an old discarded branch. "I found a stick that looks _just like_ the one stuck up your ass."

"Funny," Maverick said drily. "There's nothing wrong with discipline, you know."

Wraith rolled his eyes at James, then sat himself down on the ground, sprawling out so that he could both watch Victor shooting at his target, and speak to the rest of the team at the same time. Or perhaps he wasn't watching Victor shoot at the target… perhaps he just didn't want to put his back to Victor. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with John.

"So," the teleporter said, "you wanted to know how I discovered my powers, Bradley?"

"Yeah," the young mutant said eagerly.

"Well, it was an accident. I was twelve years old, and one of those outdoorsey kids. I loved going off with my friends during the holidays, exploring the neighbourhood, sometimes making a bit of trouble… nothing too severe, though. Mostly, my upbringing was pretty normal, for a black kid from a working family. Sure, it wasn't all peaches and cream, but I can't complain. I had it better than most.

"Anyway, like I said, I was twelve. I was hanging out at the old wooden bridge near my home, with a few of my other friends. We were stupid kids. One of them came up with a dare; to climb over the side of the bridge and make our way from one end to the other. Just to show that we weren't afraid. And of course, I was stupid too, so I agreed. Followed three of my friends to one side of the bridge, and we all climbed over the railing. Another four followed me. And slowly we began to make our way across it. Didn't realise just how old that bridge was. Half the wood was warped and rotten, only nobody had seen that part of it because all they ever saw was the middle of the bridge, the bit a car could drive over. About half way across, the railing disintegrated. Just came away as if it had never been nailed down. One of the kids in front of me, and the two directly behind me, started to fall at the same time I did. All I remember was seeing the river and the rocks below me, and thinking I was going to die. Time seemed to stretch out into an eternity, and I prayed to God one last time. At that moment, just as I was about to hit the water and the rocks, there was a flash of light across my vision, and somehow I ended up on the banks, safe and dry. Three kids died that day, and it was only because I was a mutant that it wasn't four."

"Wow. I'm sorry," said Bradley. And he sounded it, too.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Wraith said, taking a long swig of his beer. "Accidents happen. I was lucky."

James said nothing. He'd heard that line before, inside his own head. It was the line he'd told himself over and over again, after every battle and every war he'd fought in. _I didn't die because I was lucky._ And, for a while, he'd even believed the lie. Eventually, though, he'd been forced to admit the truth. He survived because he was different. A mutant. A freak. It had helped him to overcome the guilt he'd felt for years about surviving against the odds when so many good men had died. It had helped to absolve some of the blame he ascribed to himself, for not being able to do more. Blame he suspected John, too, had felt, after being the only child to survive the fall. The only one not to leave behind a heartbroken mother.

"What about you, Wade?" said Bradley. "How did you discover your powers?"

"I was a stupid kid too," Wade admitted. "Only, more stupid than Wraith. Pretty standard story, really. Army brat, moved around a lot when I was a kid, never really stayed in one place long enough to make real friends. Had a big mouth, believe it or not, and that got me into trouble with my old man, and with authority figures in general. One night I got into a bit of a fight with one of the local kids. The cops were called, and I decided the best thing to do would be to run. Only this time, I found I could run faster than ever before. I could jump higher and keep going for longer… long enough that the cops got tired of chasing me. So that's it. My noble origin story. Maybe one day, someone will make a movie out of it, though it's admittedly not as exciting as falling to my potential death from a height, or stopping a tank with my bare hands. Guess I could let Dukes and Wraith cameo in my movie… just to get the action fans in."

There was a moment of silence, and James held his breath. He knew what was coming next, and he didn't want to talk about it because his past shamed him. Yet how could he lie, or refuse to speak, when the others had been so honest? How could he ask them to talk about themselves, and refuse to do the same? If only Bradley wouldn't ask. If only he'd think of something else to talk about. But then, Bradley spoke the words James had been expecting to hear.

"Hey, Logan, how did you find out about your mutant powers?"

He took a deep breath. It was a story he'd never told before, because the only living witness—Victor already knew how it ended. It was a story he'd never _thought_ about telling, until now, and he found himself very reluctant to tell it. The others would probably understand, but he didn't_ want_ to be understood. He didn't _deserve_ it. So he decided to be blunt, and hope the inquisitive young mutant wouldn't ask any further questions.

"I got angry and killed a man."

"Oh," said Bradley, and James took a swig of his beer so he wouldn't have to see the disappointment in Bradley's eyes.

It had been over a hundred years ago, now, but James could still see it clearly in his mind's eye.

_The crash of thunder and lightning. James, on the cusp of his twelfth birthday, walked along the landing towards the stairs. The room swayed as fever gripped his mind, and shadows lengthened, reaching out towards him with their vicious fingers. He was scared, but he forced himself forward, towards the voices which were raised in anger._

_Thomas Logan, Victor's father, was standing nose-to-nose with James' father, John. His mother was off to one side, begging Thomas to leave, and even from this distance, even in the grip of fever, James could smell the alcohol rolling from Thomas Logan's body in waves of foul stench._

_A gun was brandished, a shot fired, the sharp smell of gunpowder momentarily overwhelming that of stale alcohol. His mother screamed, and his father dropped to the ground, blood pooling on his chest, overflowing onto the wooden floor. James felt his heart hammering inside his chest, heard his mother's scream inside his head over and over again, and he ran down the stairs despite the terror which wound through his heart._

_He crouched beside his father on the cold floor. Father's breath was rattling, the light in his eyes growing dim. Then, a pained groan, and his chest stopped rising and falling, his eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. In the background, mother was still screaming._

"_He has a right to know," James heard Thomas Logan said. The man's voice was oddly calm. He'd just shot a man in cold blood, and didn't even have the decency to sound as if he cared._

_For the first time in his life, James Howlett knew anger—pure, undiluted fury that seized his heart and his mind, twisting and wrenching them until a haze of red and black wrapped itself around his entire body, encasing him in its violent, velvet embrace. He wasn't just angry; he was anger incarnate. The living embodiment of hate-filled rage._

_He screamed, a sound of primal fury, and felt something snap inside him. Suddenly, pain was there too, tearing through his flesh, his bones and sinew grinding in agony. His scream deepened, and he looked down at his hands which dripped blood onto the floor, onto his father's body. There, extending out from between his fingers, were three claws on each hand, sharp-looking talons that felt both familiar and alien._

_A sharp intake of breath. He looked up to see Thomas Logan watching him, heard his mother stopped screaming as she looked on in fear at her son. And suddenly, it was all too much. The fever, the shouting, his father's blood-soaked body… James launched himself forward with another scream, this one of unbridled aggression. His gaze was fixed solely on the man who had murdered his father, and as his fists connected with Thomas Logan's torso, he felt the bone-claws sink into flesh and muscle, tearing through vital organs._

_He pulled away, and Thomas sunk to the ground. He'd been a man three times James' size, and now he was at head-height with his tiny antagonist. Blood bubbled on his lips, and in his eyes was… sadness. Terrible, deep sadness._

"_He wasn't your father," Thomas said, his words little more than a pained whisper. And finally, James understood what the shouting had been about. He looked to his mother, saw the devastation on her face, and for a brief moment, he hated her every bit as much as he hated Thomas Logan._

_Tearing his eyes away from the woman who'd betrayed his father, who'd betrayed her family, he looked back to Thomas. There was no fear in the man's eyes, no hatred, no guilt. James realised he considered himself as much a victim in this as the man he had murdered._

"_Son," said Thomas, a final acknowledgement of the hateful truth James did not want to accept. Then he, too, ceased to breath, though the blood still trickled from his lips._

"_What are you?" his mother demanded. Her face was twisted into a caricature of fear and revulsion. She looked at him as if he was a stranger, and not her own child. Again, anger clouded James' mind. How dare she judge him, after all she had done, after she had torn their family apart?_

_But it wasn't just anger he felt now; it was fear. He had killed a man. Granted, that man was himself a murderer, but the townsmen wouldn't care. They'd take one look at the body of Thomas Logan, one look at the claws on James' hands, and drag him to the gallows. Even at the best of times, the townsmen were wary of outsiders, of people who were different. They would see James as nothing but a monster, and he knew it._

_So he ran. He didn't look back, at the two bodies staining the floor red, at the disgust in his mother's eyes—he merely ran for his life._

How could he convey that to the rest of Team X? How could he possibly tell it in such a way that would capture his anger and his helplessness, his fear and his hatred? How could he excuse what he had done when he had acted in haste and ended a man's life? There was no excusing his actions, and he wanted no understanding for them. All he wanted was to be left alone with that memory. And so, he did the only thing he could think to do. He swiftly changed the subject.

"Y'know, Bradley, you've asked us how we discovered our powers, but you haven't talked about your own experience," he pointed out.

"There's not really that much to tell," Bradley replied, running a hand through his hair. "It happened when I was at school, at a time when I was being picked on for being smaller than most of the other kids. I was probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. One day, three guys cornered me in the locker room, and though they'd only ever verbally bullied me before, I just knew that this time it was going to be different. That it was going to get physical. I remember thinking I wish I had the courage to lash out, to punch one of them even though I knew it would get me punched in return. And then, just as I was thinking about it, all the lights blew out. Glass everywhere. The sound drew the attention of the gym teacher, but he thought it had just been a power surge. That's what I thought, too, until it happened to me at home. I was having a bad dream, and as I woke up from it, the lights shattered in my house… the TV blew, too. My parents blamed it on the electricity company. By that time, I knew better."

"Did the other kids stop picking on you after that?" asked Wraith.

"No, because they didn't know it was me who'd blown the lights." Bradley smiled. "I got my own back, though, in other ways."

"Ooh, the vindictive side of Mr Christopher Bradley," Wade said. "Do tell."

"Well, it was mostly just little things. One of the guys was a typical jock; real vain. So whenever he was chatting to girls, I generated a static charge around him, made his hair a frizzy mess. Sometimes I diverted electricity and ran it through the lockers, to give the bullies minor electrical shocks. Oh, and I drained the battery in one guy's car. Every day. For a year."

"Note to self: Do not piss Bradley off," said Wade.

"Well," said Wraith, "we already know how Dukes discovered his powers. That tank never saw him coming. What's your story, Zero?"

"No story," Maverick replied. "I just woke up one day with cat-like agility."

"Heh. Right. Message received."

James tossed aside his empty can and reached for another beer, his eyes wandering of their own accord to Victor. He knew that his brother had heard every word of the conversation shared by the rest of Team X, but, as usual, he stubbornly refused to be part of the group. Not even James knew how Victor had discovered his own mutant powers, and somehow, he doubted that was going to change any time soon.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Westchester County, New York**

**11:00 HRS**

The proud and stately mansion loomed into view, and Stryker halted the car outside the front gates. There was a camera mounted high above them, atop a pillar which proclaimed this place _Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters_. He hadn't wanted to come here, but it was Sarah's idea, and she was determined to come and speak to the man named Xavier regardless of whether her husband agreed. Reluctantly, he agreed to accompany her. In the back of the car, Jason was silent and pale, his eyes roving over everything outside the car windows so that he didn't have to look forward, at his parents. That tiny act pained Stryker more than he would have thought possible.

After a moment of being scanned by the security camera, the gates opened up, allowing the Stryker family car to proceed up the long, gently-winding driveway. As he drove forward, Stryker allowed himself a moment of envy. This 'Xavier' had obviously done alright for himself, despite being a mutant; the grounds of the mansion were immaculately kept, and the house itself was fine and large enough to satisfy even the pickiest of politicians.

Two figures were waiting at the top of the drive, at the bottom of the steps to the front door, and as Stryker approached it was only his familiarity with mutants that stopped his mouth from dropping open in surprise. Sarah, who had no such experience, did not have that benefit, and when he glanced to his wife he saw the shock on her face.

Stryker stopped the car and took a deep breath. "Well, we might as well see this through," he said quietly, more to himself than to his family. "Sarah, Jason, try not to stare. The mutant might not like it."

He couldn't blame them for staring. It wasn't every day you saw a mutant with _blue fur_ wearing a pair of jeans and an oversized basball shirt. He hadn't expected there to be such outlandish mutants present at the school… though he realised he shouldn't have been so surprised. If a mutant couldn't pass, then where else would he come, if not a school for such freaks?

Opening his car door, he stepped outside and gestured for his family to do the same. Together they approached the waiting pair, and for the first time, Stryker turned his attention to the second man. He was fairly nondescript, save for the fact that he was bald as a billiard ball… and yet his face was oddly young, at odds with his lack of hair. His blue eyes had an intense, penetrating look about them.

"Mr and Mrs Stryker," the young-old man said. "My name is Charles Xavier. Welcome to my school."

"Thank you, Mr Xavier," Sarah said, rushing forward to shake the man's proffered hand before William could open his mouth. She'd been so desperate to get Jason here, and so afraid that Xavier would refuse to meet with them.

"This is my colleague, Henry McCoy," Xavier said, gesturing to the blue mutant.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr and and Mrs Stryker," Henry said. Thankfully, he didn't offer his hand. Or paw. Whatever it was. He did look down at Jason, though, who was trying his best to hide behind his parents. "And this must be young Jason. I'm glad to see you here, Jason, and I hope we'll have chance to become good friends."

"I've asked Henry to give Jason a tour of the school whilst we talk in my office," said Xavier. "I'll give you all the grand tour later, but I felt it best that we get the formalities out of the way, first. I hope that's alright?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Stryker said. What else _could_ he say? He was a guest in this man's home, and he didn't exactly want Jason listening in whilst the adults discussed the boy's… problem. It was something Jason was still very sensitive about.

"Jason, would you like to come with me and I'll show you some of our facilities?"

Jason glanced to his father, for permission or reassurance, and Stryker nodded.

"Go on, son. We'll see you again once we've spoken to Mr Xavier here."

"Yes, sir," Jason said, and allowed himself to be led off by the ape-like Henry.

"Please, Mr and Mrs Stryker, if you'll follow me, I have tea and coffee waiting in my office," said Xavier.

Stryker nodded again, offering his arm to his wife and setting off up the steps. The mansion was every bit as sumptuous on the inside as it was the outside, and Xavier offered comments as they walked. _Over there is the dining room; I only have eight students at the moment—hopefully nine, after today—but they eat together at meal times, like any family._ Then, shortly after; _Here we are at the stairs. The students each have their own bedrooms on the second floor, as well as a shared recreation room for playing games and watching TV—something that only happens once they've completed their daily school work, I can assure you._

Then, they passed a room from which the wonderful smell of baking bread came. _Ah, the kitchen. We employ a cook, a wonderful woman who makes every meal to meet all of the students' nutritional needs. She and Alfonse, the gardener, are the only non-mutants here, but they're both very sympathetic to mutants and their needs._ As they walked past yet another door, Stryker heard the sound of a violin being played within. _Yes, the music room,_ Xavier commented. _I firmly believe that students should not focus solely on academia; children need chance to be creative, to learn new skills and abilities which may have nothing at all to do with their mutations. Ultimately, it helps them to integrate into society._

"And, err, your… blue man," Sarah said, her grip tightening on Stryker's arm, "what is it that he does here?"

"Henry is one of my students, but he's a genius in his own right. He excels in physics, chemistry and biology… pretty much anything he puts his mind to, really. He's one of my oldest students, and helps to keep an eye on the younger ones."

Stryker merely nodded, feeling like one of those damn nodding birds, but also feeling a little out of his depth. In some ways, this school was similar to his own facilities at Bunker Five. The main difference was, he was training mutants to be weapons, whilst Xavier was trying to help them fit in with the normal folks. Their methods of training, he suspected, were very different to those Team X were subjected to.

"And here's my office," Xavier said, leading the couple into a large study. He took the chair behind the headmaster-like desk and offered the two seats in front of it to the Strykers. "Can I offer you a drink."

"Thank you," Sarah said. "I could use a nice cup of tea, after our long drive. William prefers coffee, though."

Stryker waited whilst Xavier served the drinks, and then watched as the bald man sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers above his own cup of tea.

"So," the school's headmaster said at last, "tell me about Jason."

"I think I covered most of it when we spoke on the telephone, Mr Xavier," Sarah said.

"You told me what happened to Jason at school, but I want to know about your _son._ What sort of things does he like? Does he have many friends? How is he reacting to everything that's happened to him in recent days?"

"No offence, Mr Xavier," Stryker said, speaking up for the first time, "but what does any of that have to do with Jason's treatment?"

One of Xavier's eyebrows rose. "Treatment?"

"Our son is a mutant. We need to cure him, so that he can live a normal, happy life."

Xavier took a deep breath; it almost sounded like a sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was careful and measured.

"Mr Stryker, may I speak honestly with you?"

"I'd expect nothing less."

"The truth is, mutation is not a sickness, or a disease; it is a natural progression of a species. In this case, the human species. And yes, although the word 'cure' has been thrown around by certain individuals, there is no proof that mutation can be, or ever will be, cured, short of culling out from the population anybody with the propensity to pass on the mutant gene. Genocide and eugenics are things I wish to avoid at any cost, and so I seek to change minds and opinions by proving that mutants can not only be good, respectable citizens, but that they can also be beneficial to 'normal' people who might otherwise fear and hate them."

"You don't have to sell me on the potential usefulness of mutants, Mr Xavier," said Stryker stiffly.

Xavier nodded. "Very well. Tell me; how much do you actually know about mutation?"

"More than you might guess," Stryker said. His team of geneticists were amongst the best in the country; Doctor Cornelius was a certified genius.

"And do you know that there are two main types of mutation? Those which are obvious from birth—such as my good friend Henry's prehensile feet—and those which manifest at a point in a mutant's life."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"I wasn't," Sarah admitted. "What is it that causes a mutation to manifest?"

"Normally, some sort of stressful event," Xavier explained patiently. "Usually such manifestations happen during the teenage years, when emotions and hormones are running high, and the feeling of insecurity is heightened."

"But Jason isn't a teenager."

"No. The mutations _usually_ manifest during the teens, but not always. Sometimes, mutations don't show until early adulthood, and sometimes a person can go for most of their lives without being aware they are a mutant, simply because their mutation has never encountered that vital trigger point. In the case of Jason, the opposite has happened. Your son is seven, isn't he?"

"Yes," Stryker confirmed. "He'll be eight next month." He'd been planning to take the boy out hunting, for his eighth birthday. A man was never too young to learn how to shoot a gun. His own father had taught him that.

"So young," Xavier said, with a small shake of his head. His eyes glazed over as he stared at the wood-grain of his desk, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "Sometimes, early triggering can do more harm than good. Not all children can handle being given such power at a young age."

"Please, Mr Xavier," said Sarah, in a pleading tone of voice, "I just want my son to be safe. I don't want him to be a danger to himself, or to others. William is going to have the finest scientific minds working on a cure, but in the meantime, we need Jason to be safe."

"Yes," Stryker agreed. "Until my son can be cured, he needs to be taught how to manage his powers so that he doesn't cause harm to others. And that's something I can't do." He didn't like admitting his own deficiency—a man ought to be able to raise his own son, without input from another—but Jason's new mutant powers complicated things. There was nobody else he could turn to; nobody he knew had experience in raising a mutant kid.

Xavier subjected him to a long and focused stare, and then nodded imperceptibly. "Very well. I'll teach your son how to control his powers, and to use them responsibly. But ultimately, he'll look to his parents for guidance. It will be down to you to set an example for him."

"As it should be," Stryker said, feeling hope surging anew in his chest. With Xavier to teach the boy, there was less chance of Jason accidentally harming others. And with the scientists of Bunker Five at his disposal to work on a cure, he was certain that soon Jason, and all those like him, would lead normal lives once more.


	7. The Search

No I in Team

* * *

"_We are, all of us, growing volcanoes that approach the hour of their eruption; but how near or distant that is, nobody knows — not even God__." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_7. The Search_

**Location: Dense rainforest of the Yucatán Peninsula**

**Estados Unidos Mexicanos (Mexico)**

**12:46 HRS**

"I hate nature."

The whistle of Wade's sword singing through the air accompanied his words as he sliced the flies buzzing around him cleanly in half.

"I hate the heat," Bradley complained. He, like the others, was coated in a layer of sweat, his shirt showing patches of damp. His wet hair looked a shade darker than its normal sandy colour.

"It's not the heat, it's the humidity," said Wraith. He took off the cowboy hat he'd recently taken to wearing and used it to fan his glistening face.

"Air shouldn't be this hard to breathe," Dukes added. The big man was suffering badly in the stifling heat and humidity. Even James found the going tough—the Yucatán climate was different to that of Vietnam, which was the last jungle he had fought in. Here, the atmosphere was more oppressive.

He suffered in silence, of course. A captain had to set a good example, and for almost three years he'd been leading his men by the best example he possibly could. Sometimes, his attempts fell on deaf ears and blind eyes—Victor remained aggressive even when he wasn't fighting, and became violence unrestrained in combat; Zero, who'd earned his code-name back a couple of years ago, was pretty much the same aloof and superior bastard he'd been from day one, and getting Wade to shut up for more than five minutes was a challenge James wrestled with on a daily basis—but he'd made progress in some ways.

His relationship with each member of the team was unique. John Wraith was his closest friend, quickly earning James' respect with his quick wit, lack of airs and graces, and overall affability. Though he was never the first to offer to rush into danger, he didn't hesitate stepping into a fight when he saw his particular talents were needed by the group. And though he seemed to lack the same enjoyment of fighting shared by most others in the team, he could still be relied upon to come to the aid of his friends. The oft-cheerful teleporter was the most reliable and sensible member of their dysfunctional family, and though he had a good sense of humour, he never let his jokes go too far.

Wade Wilson was the opposite. His humour tended towards the dark, sarcastic and quite often mocking. The only reason James hadn't stamped down on his humour was because for Wade, it wasn't personal. Nothing he did was personal. One minute he'd be making fun of Bradley, and the next he'd transfer his attention to Dukes, or Wraith. Not even Stryker was immune to the former merc's mockery. Wade seemed to fear nothing; he openly made fun of Victor, happily threw himself into combat, and showed the minimal amount of deference to authority figures. He was also incredibly random in his behaviour. During a mission in Chechnya, James had seen Wade shoot an unarmed man in the back—he claimed it was the safest way to shoot someone, as they couldn't see you coming—and then two days later had seen him risk his own life to grab a half-starved mongrel pup from the path of an oncoming truck. Recently, Wade had even taken to narrating his own, and others', actions. James suspected he was doing it to be as annoying as humanly, or mutantly, possible, but trying to get him to stop was more trouble than it was worth.

If Wade was an open book filled with an incomprehensible and nonsensical language, then David 'Zero' North was a closed book inside a box hidden in a cave buried 200ft beneath the ground. James knew very little about Zero, save for the fact that the man hated him. When he was obeying orders, Zero was as solid and dependable as Wraith, lacking Wade's erratic streak and Victor's outbursts of violence. When he got it into his mind to be stubborn, however, he was the biggest pain in the ass on the team. Sometimes, Zero tried to undermine James' commands in subtle ways; he'd react to something more slowly than he should have, or 'accidentally' mis-hear an order, which meant James had to be very specific when issuing commands to the sharp-shooter. Overall, James thought of him as one of those unimaginative and peevish kids who was always vying for the teacher's attention, and jealous when anybody else was given a word of praise.

Bradley was, perhaps, the team's biggest success story. No matter how many steaks he ate, he never seemed to put on any weight, but over the years he transformed himself from a quiet, nervous kid uncomfortable with speaking up in the group, to a young man confident in himself and his own abilities. His pre-mission nerves never disappeared entirely, but he managed to control them to the extent that they were undetectable by James. As he came out of his shell, Bradley started speaking more, volunteering his opinions and speaking his mind with increasing confidence. Like the others on the team, his powers and abilities grew in strength and accuracy the more he used them, and he even learnt how to maintain barriers which didn't tax him quite as much. During missions, he preferred to stick close to James, looking to the older man for guidance, but he wasn't afraid to take the initiative when required.

Fred Dukes was a man of few words. He preferred direct action to long discussion, and he wasn't afraid of anything. James' relationship him remained cool but professional, lacking both the warmth of his friendship with Wraith, and the cold enmity he shared with Zero. Dukes never disobeyed orders, or questioned the wisdom of James' decisions, and though he offered his opinion when asked, he rarely volunteered it. He shrugged off Wade's jokes as easily as another man might shrug off a backpack, and though he kept a watchful eye over Bradley, he never overstepped his bounds or humiliated the young man by being over-protective. Overall, Dukes got along with everybody, but, like James, was closest to Wraith, drawn to the teleporter's easy-going personality.

That left Victor, and what could James say about Victor? He was a man of strong feelings and strong passions, but with the capacity for cold aloofness. He was capable of forming plans, but usually forgot them in the heat of the moment and reverted to his instinctive, bestial nature. Victor had many faults, and James tried to overlook them, to keep them in his blind-spot where he didn't have to see them and deal with them, because he was afraid that if he was forced to deal with Victor's faults, he would lose his brother; the only blood-family he had. And even though James was the younger of the two, he felt responsible for Victor. He didn't want to be without the one person who had been the only constant throughout his whole life.

Walking at the head of the group, Stryker lead the team, but he wasn't a part of it. Not like the others. His 'humanity', his lack of mutant powers, separated him from the men he commanded, setting him on some other level. James didn't resent Stryker for that any more than he resented Wraith for his skin colour, or Bradley for his nerves, or Wade for his verbal diarrhoea.

"_And so the intrepid explorers soldiered on through the dense jungle—the same jungle they'd been walking through for the past thirty-six hours because their Führer had yet to tell them the purpose of their mission_… —I'm sorry sir, I didn't intend to imply a Nazi connotation there… —_and each and every man amongst them was hot, and tired, and hungry, and smelled of Dukes' rancid socks because they hadn't bathed in four days. But they marched forward, stoic, determined, not complaining about the heat or their hunger, never once wishing for a pool-side deckchair and an ice-cold martini… except for Victor, who liked the little paper umbrellas."_

Well, perhaps Wade was the exception to James' resentment.

"Hey, Wade," Victor growled from behind, "if I got one of those little paper umbrellas and shoved it down your throat, would that shut you up?"

"Unlikely," Wraith replied, from near the front of the group. "He'd just start talking out his ass."

"You say that like he doesn't already."

"Maybe," said Zero, "we'd get through this damn jungle faster if you _all_ put the same amount of energy into clearing away the brush as you do into talking." The sharp-shooter, who was walking directly behind Stryker at the front of the group—all the better to kiss the boss's ass, no doubt—lifted his machete and hacked at a woody liana that hung across his path at head-height. "Why don't you put those swords to good use, Wilson?"

"I'm going to pretend that you _don't_ know that katanas are the only weapons in existence which are infused with the very soul of the men who made and wield them, Zee," said Wade. "And that you _don't_ know that to suggest putting such an exquisite weapon to a mundane task dishonours the very soul of the blade. Because if you _did_ know those things, and you suggested that I use my swords to hack at plants regardless of that fact, you and I would have a problem." He twirled his sword around in a fast arc, slicing through another large fly.

"And cutting up flies isn't a 'mundane task'?" asked Zero.

"It's target practice. Honing my reflexes. Doctor C. says I'm a genius."

"I think what Cornelius meant was 'touched in the head,'" Victor said, with a small malicious grin for his own insult.

"No, really. He says that my brain is capable of calculating the velocity of a moving object, and relaying to my muscles exactly when and how fast I need to move to intercept it. He says the level of physics and pure maths involved puts me on on par with Einstein and the guy who invented Cheez Whiz. Maybe when we get back from this sojourn into the heart of the middle of nowhere, I'll join Mensa. They'll probably make me a doctor right away. Or maybe a professor. Which has the nicest ring to it; Doctor Wade, or Professor Wade?"

"I like Professor," Bradley said. James shook his head. The kid seemed to have some sort of immunity to Wade's banter. He was the only one who bothered responding to it, most of the time.

"Good call. I like it too. It sounds very cultured and respectful. Plus, chicks go in for that whole 'authority figure' thing."

Wraith caught James' eyes, and gave him a long-suffering expression of pained tolerance.

"Major," James called, from his position in the middle of the group, "is our mission here reliant on stealth and silence, by any chance?"

"Not yet."

"Can it be?"

From behind, Victor chuckled.

"_Time passed, as it is wont to do. Midday became early afternoon, and then late afternoon, and then early evening. Future Mensa member Wade Wilson attempted to break up the monotony of the march through the jungle by engaging his teammates in a rousing game of I–spy, but there are only so many times you can spy 'tree' and 'parrot' and 'the back of Zero's head' before even that gets boring. As darkness began to descend upon the verdant tropical forest, the group found themselves a campsite and settled down to a meal of delicious, not-at-all-tasting-like-polystyrene field rations and tepid canteen water. Victor disappeared into the jungle, presumably to answer a call of nature, and the rest of the team congregated around a small camp-fire, courtesy of expert fire-maker Fred Dukes, to engage in some healthy, totally heterosexual group camaraderie."_

"Wade, for the love of God, will you give it a rest for _five damn minutes_?" growled James.

Wade glanced down at his watch. "Would you like your five minutes to start now?"

"Y'know," Bradley said, filling the silence left by Wade, "if you don't count the insane number of insects, and the heat, and the constant noise, this place isn't all that bad."

James snorted. That sort of comment was certifiable. The jungle was too hot, too humid, and far too noisy. It wasn't just the birds; birds he could have handled. It was the insects, and the frogs, and the monkeys which screamed at the human invaders from the safety of the high canopy. The insects were the worst, though. They were noisy, and they were ubiquitous. It had been bad enough when the team had been walking, but now that they'd stopped, all manner of crawling and flying insects and bugs came flocking to the group, some drawn by the light of the fire, some drawn by the promise of an easy feast of mammal.

"Can't you do something about this?" James asked Bradley. He slapped his hand against his arm, squashing something that looked like a sparrow-sized mosquito.

"Oh, you want me to lower myself to using my powers as a glorified fly-zapper?" replied Bradley. The tone of disapproval in his voice was at odds with the sparkle of humour in his eyes. "Well, yeah, I'm sure I could, but I'm not sure if I have the right to. I mean, we _are_ invading their home, after all. They're just trying to tell us we don't belong here."

"I can make it an order, if it helps."

"No need for that, Captain."

James felt an electric tingle on his skin, and his hairs began to stand on end. The tingle worked upwards and outward, sweeping across the ground and through the air, repulsing insects as it expanded. Soon the air around the entire campsite was clear, and an energy barrier surrounded the group. Some insects tried to pass it, but they ended their lives to the hum of an electric _zap_.

Bradley lay down on his back on the now bug-free ground, folding his arms behind his head as he looked through his invisible barrier and up to to few stars which could be seen twinkling through the tree tops.

"Hey, Wraith," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever thought about what you'll do when the military doesn't need us anymore? When all this is over, I mean. Have you ever thought about having… y'know… more?"

"Sure I have," Wraith replied. He picked up a few leaves from the ground and threw them into the fire, watching the flames hungrily lick at them, burning them to char. "I think anyone who says he hasn't thought about a better life and something more than fighting is just trying to fool himself."

"So what's your dream?"

"Me? I'm gonna open up my own boxing gym. Train up the next Joe Frazier. Maybe help disadvantaged black kids get a better start in life by giving them a skill to make their name by."

"So… your dream of something more than fighting is to help people by teaching them to fight?"

"Kinda ironic, when you put it that way," Wraith said wryly.

"What about you, Dukes?"

"Gonna buy my own restaurant. I'll call it 'Dukes.'"

"Original," said Zero.

"People will come from all over the country to try my burgers. I'll have burgers made out of everything; beef, pork, turkey, moose—"

"Soylent green?" asked Wade.

"Wasn't that a film?"

"Are you going to serve anything but burgers in your restaurant?" Bradley asked.

"Nah, I like burgers."

"Well, when you've got your restaurant, I'll come and try your burgers."

Wade snickered. "That doesn't sound like a euphemism _at all_."

"What about you, Wade? What's your dream?" Bradley said, ignoring his comment.

"Easy. Prove myself to be the best swordsman in the whole world." He lifted one of his katanas and swished it through the air, making a noise like a gentle breeze. "I want a trophy, with my name on it. 'Wade Wilson, Mensa member, and World's Best Swordsman.' I'll probably have to kill everybody who challenges me just on general principle, but that's what makes me the best."

"Do you have any dreams, Zero?"

The sharp-shooter scoffed. "Dreams are for people who can't handle the reality of their situation. I'm perfectly happy where I am. Why would I want anything else?"

"I dunno… figured you might want to prove yourself as the best marksman in the world or something," Bradley suggested.

"I already _am_ the best marksman in the world." Zero threw a somewhat condescending glare at Wade. "And I don't need my name on some trophy just to prove it. I never miss what I aim for."

"Oookay. Logan? Do you have something in mind for when all this is over?"

"Take it from me, kid," he said, "it's never over. There's always going to be another war, another threat, another conflict. For as long as there are two people alive, there will be fighting."

"What if the two people alive are a man and a woman?"

"Double the fighting," said Wraith, and everybody laughed, lightening the mood which had threatened to turn sombre at James' words. Even Zero managed a smile. Wraith turned his gaze to Stryker, who was sitting a little apart from the group, listening to the banter, but not partaking in it. "You got a family, don't you, Major?"

Stryker nodded. "That's right. A wife and a son."

"And is marital bliss all it's advertised to be?"

"We've had our ups and downs, but I wouldn't change my family for the world."

"What's your wife like?"

"Beautiful. Intelligent. Innocent. Sometimes I wonder what she sees in a soldier like me. Sometimes I think she deserves better than a man who's away from home most of the time… but she never complains."

"What about your son? Does he miss not having his daddy around?"

"Maybe," Stryker said. His face took on a cagey, sad expression in the firelight. "Jason's away at boarding school at the moment, studying with other intelligent and gifted youngsters. He's probably having the time of his life; away from home, away from the old folks, surrounded by friends. I'm certain he's happy."

There was a loud crashing sound from out in the jungle on the periphery of the campsite, and everybody was on their feet, weapons to hand. James extended his bone-claws, but when he caught a familiar whiff, he relaxed. "It's only Victor," he said, pulling his claws back into his hands and sitting back down.

Sure enough, a few moments later Victor came striding into the firelight, something small, brown and furry strung across one shoulder. Whatever it was looked recently dead. Victor deposited his kill on the ground and stepped back, smelling self-satisfied.

"What the hell's that?" Wraith asked. He poked the dead thing with the toe of his boot, and it rocked a little before settling.

"Dinner," said Victor. He lifted one of his hands and extended the nails on his first two fingers—Victor had never liked using knives to skin things.

"It's… um… a monkey," said Bradley.

"You're actually going to _eat_ that thing?" Wraith asked. The blackness of his skin had taken on a somewhat green tone. "It's probably got diseases."

"Good job I don't get sick."

"Hey, Dukes," said Wade smiling brightly, "you could make us some soylent green burgers out of it."

"Whaddya mean?" Dukes asked. His face wore the same frown that appeared every time something went over his head.

"Well, the nature boffins reckon that apes and humans are descended from the same common monkey-like ancestor, right? So I figure eating monkeys is only one step away from eating people. Hmm, now that I mention it, I _am_ seeing something of a family resemblance. This isn't your cousin, is it Victor?"

"So, anyone for fried monkey chunks?" Victor asked.

"I'll pass, thanks," said Bradley.

"You couldn't _pay_ me to eat that, man," Wraith added.

"You just ruined visiting the zoo for me," said Dukes. "Aww, I told Gina I'd take her to the zoo one time. How am I going to do that now?"

"You boys are all too sensitive," Victor chuckled, glancing up at Zero and Wade. "Anybody else for barbecued monkey?"

"Yeaaaahh…" said Wade, eyeing up the hairy brown corpse, "see, I'm _hungry_, but I'm not _starving_. As long as I have beef-flavoured polystyrene rations courtesy of the gourmet chefs of the US Army, I figure I can hold off on eating your cousin."

"I've given up eating monkey for lent," said Zero.

Victor shrugged. "More for me, then." He glanced at his brother. "Unless you want some, Jimmy?"

James shook his head. He'd eaten a lot of strange things in his life—most of them in France—but barbecued monkey just did not appeal at all.

"Your loss."

"Logan," said Stryker, "you should set a rotating watch and have the team get what sleep they can. We should be at our destination by midday tomorrow, and I want everybody as fresh as possible."

"I don't suppose you're ready to tell us what our destination _is_?"

"You'll see soon enough," Stryker said with a smile.

James fought the frustrated sigh that tried to escape his lips. Stryker was, at times, one cagey SOB. He asked a lot of Team X, and often give them little or no explanation for the orders he issued. Whether he didn't entirely trust the team, or whether he'd been ordered not to divulge information by his superiors in Washington, James did not know, but it made for some strained working conditions.

With nothing else to do, he left Victor to the skinning and cooking of the poor dead monkey, and set shifts for a rotating watch. He paired Bradley with Dukes, Wraith with Wade, Zero with Victor, and himself with Stryker. Perhaps once the rest of the men were asleep, he could wheedle a little more info about this mission from the major. And if not… well, there would be nothing to do but wait and see, and hope that their rations would last them until their objective was complete. Otherwise they'd all be eating monkey soon enough.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Chicxulub Crater, periphery**

**Yucatán Peninsula**

**11:50 HRS**

James peered through the binoculars, his sensitive eyes picking up every tiny movement through the lenses. Their destination, and mission objective, was a small mining operation, just downhill of the strange, curved mountain range where Team X had stopped for a midday break. He could hear the men emptying their canteens—they'd need to find a river soon, to refill—but he ignored the team for a moment, focusing his attention on the men down in the valley.

There was some machinery, but this appeared to be a very small mining site. _Exploratory mining,_ he thought. Made sense. Before you sent in the big guns, you sent in someone to make sure there really was oil, or minerals, or gold, or whatever the hell you were mining for in the first place. Admittedly, he knew very little about mining, save for the fact that it was dirty, tiring, dangerous work. Even though automation had made some aspects of it easier, there were still cave-ins to worry about, natural gas leaks, underground explosions, earthquakes, and sometimes heavy-metal poisoning, if safety measures were lax. Victor had wanted to head north to the Yukon during the Klondike gold rush in 1896, but James, who'd never cared much for gold and had been married at the time, had held back, and so the brothers had been spared the arduous trek through the Canadian winter, bogged down by mining equipment, and saved from the disappointment of likely finding nothing but months worth of fruitless panning upon reaching their destination.

The men in the valley were a mixture of miners, geologists—dusty men wearing hard-hats and carrying rock samples and panniers—and armed guards wearing fatigues and carrying automatic weapons.

"What's with the muscle?" James asked, the words forming from the side of his mouth which didn't have a cigar poking out of it.

"Oil companies like to protect their investments, Logan," Stryker said, sounding and smelling calm. "Besides, the jungle isn't without its dangers. Disgruntled locals, rogue military personnel, native predators—"

"Us," offered Zero.

"Indeed." Stryker turned to the rest of the team, and James packed his binoculars away. "I know I've not given you much to go on, and that wasn't my choice, but now that we've reached our target I can at least tell you why we're here. The men in the mining camp below have something we need. Something that my superiors don't want falling into the wrong hands. Something with important potential military applications. We've been tasked with entering the camp, subduing any resistance, and confiscating certain materials.

"The men down below work for a civilian company, but they have an agreement with the Mexican government which allows them to perform limited mining operations in this area. It's an agreement that our own government was unable to secure. You are authorised to use whatever force is necessary to subdue the guards, but I want the scientists and the mining crew kept alive and unharmed. Once we're in a safe position outside the camp, Logan, you will lead the team in an assault. Bradley, you'll remain with me and cut off enemy comms, in case they try to signal for help. When the area is secure and all men accounted for, find me the lead geologist, a man named Doctor Charles Brenner, put him in one of the mining camp's cabins, and sit on him until I arrive. I'll need to speak with him in private. Does anybody have any questions?"

There were none. This was a simple circle and capture exercise; nothing that would challenge the team's abilities. The enemy's automatic weapons would not cause a problem for most of them, and if Bradley was to hang back with Stryker, it simply meant the rest of the team could move all that much faster.

When Stryker gave the signal, Logan took the lead, guiding the team down the mountain-side. He didn't need to say 'silence from now on.' Even Wade knew better than to continue chatter this close to an enemy base. Indeed, the former mercenary, along with the rest of the team, had taken to silence, each one of them scanning the jungle around them as if it held a dozen enemy soldiers, cautious as a wolf-pack moving into unknown territory. James didn't bother telling them that their vigilance was in vain; that he and Victor would have heard and smelt anything approaching long before any of them could have raised the alarm. He didn't bother telling them because he wanted them to think that their vigilance had purpose. Right now they were being cautious, and caution was good. It kept people alive.

A few hundred metres out from the mining camp, James halted the team. The area was secure enough for Stryker to wait, and close enough for Bradley to block enemy comms, should it be required. As the pair settled in for the wait, James led the rest of the team closer to the mining camp, and signalled for them all to ready weapons. Duke and Wraith checked their automatic rifles, whilst Zero took the safeties off his pistols. Wade unsheathed his two katanas, and Victor cracked his knuckles, extending his long claw-like nails.

"Wraith, Dukes, Wilson, circle around to the other side of the camp. I want to hit them from all sides and ensure nobody escapes. Nobody moves until I give the signal. And I know what Stryker said," James told his men, "but I'd like minimal fatalities on this mission. No killing, not even the guards, unless it's absolutely necessary."

"What?" Wade said. "No killing? C'mon, man, you're cramping my style!"

"That's 'c'mon _Captain_, you're cramping my style,'" James corrected. He set off forward, trusting the others to obey his commands.

"Why you always gotta antagonise him?" he heard Wraith ask. "You piss him off, and we all have to deal with it."

"I ask myself that very question every single day. I say to myself, _'Wadey, why can't you just get along with everyone? Why do you have to antagonise folks? Can't you find some healthier way of getting your kicks?'_"

"Do you ever ask yourself, _'Wadey, why you gotta talk so much?'_"

"No, but stranger things have happened, I guess."

Conversation ceased as Wraith, Wade and Dukes ghosted through the forest, making their way to the other side of the mining camp. Whilst he waited for them to get into position, James activated his radio and signalled back to the pair waiting behind.

"Bradley, how's it going on that comms block?"

"Already done," the young mutant replied. "You're good to go at your leisure."

"Wraith here," came John's voice over the radio. "In position."

"I'm ready too," said Dukes.

"Ready and eager to fill up my daily maiming quota," said Wade.

"Alright," James said. "Everyone… go."

He'd prepared himself for the thunder of gunfire, tensing himself in preparation for it, and as soon as he heard the other members of Team X firing into the air, to disorientate the mine guards, he let loose with his own rifle, teaming it with a yell of excitement and adrenaline as he ran through the dense bushes.

"Everybody get down on the ground and put your hands behind your heads!" he shouted.

Of course, they didn't listen. Nobody ever listened when you asked politely. The miners and geologists scattered, some running for cover of their machinery—those, James ignored—and others making a break for the freedom of the forest. He heard their strangled cries of alarm as they encountered the other members of Team X. Zero, Wade and Wraith herded the civilians back towards the camp with the finesse of champion sheepdogs, whilst Victor and Dukes took out the guards who thought they stood a chance.

One of the armed men aimed his weapon at Dukes, but Wraith teleported right behind him, kicked his leg behind the knee to force him to the ground, and subjected him to a brief but effective choke-hold. James smiled; he'd taught Wraith that move.

The civilians, meanwhile, seemed so terrified of Victor's feral roars and blood-soaked hands that some of them collapsed on the spot, whilst the rest shrank back, deciding that if there couldn't be safety in numbers, there could at least be companionship in terror. Zero led another scientist into their midst, marching the man by the collar of his shirt, and forcing him into the group of cornered, terrified men. As Victor went with Wraith to hunt down two remaining soldiers who'd thought they could make a run for it, James rested his barely-fired gun against his shoulder, and approached the scientists. Taking out a cigar, he lit it, took a couple of puffs, and gave them the once-over.

"Which of you is Brenner?" he asked.

Each and every one of them looked terrified, but at last one of the men stepped forward. He was younger than James had thought he would be, forty at most. Still a kid, compared to the long years of James' candle.

"I'm Charles Brenner," he said. "Please, don't hurt my crew. They're good men. They're just doing their jobs. Whatever you want, you've made a mistake. We aren't here to mine gold, or diamonds; we have nothing of value to you."

"Zero," James said, because he always hated to hear a man beg for his life, "stick him in the far cabin and watch him in case he tries to make a run for it." Fortunately, Zero seemed to be in a good mood, and he followed orders without hesitation or delay. "The rest of you," he said, as the marksman led Brenner away, "get down on your knees and put your hands behind your heads. Wade, if anyone tries to run, take their knee-caps off."

Wade smiled and whirled one of his katanas casually. He settled in to watch the scientists like a hawk just waiting for the rabbit to start running, and content that the situation was under control for the moment, James turned his attention to the rest of the camp. There were only a couple of dead bodies littering the impromptu battlefield. One had his throat torn out—Victor's work. He'd have to talk to Victor about that, later. It wouldn't do for him to ignore orders. The second corpse had been shot in the chest by a bullet, but there was no way of knowing who'd done the killing. It could have been any of his men, or it could have been a stray bullet, or friendly fire, or even a bullet reflected by Wade's swords. The rest of the soldiers were groaning in pain, most of them shot in non-fatal places. Well, ordinarily the wounds would not have been fatal, but out here, unless they had an excellent field medic, most of them might die anyway.

He noticed Dukes dragging the groaning men into a group, disarming them before they could even think about firing on their attackers, and made a mental note to commend the large man for his swift thinking. When Dukes had finished piling up the enemy guns, he called him over.

"Go and fetch Stryker and Bradley," he said.

"Can't you just radio them?"

"Could, but I want to give Victor and Wraith a chance to get back here with their prisoners before Stryker rolls in and starts asking questions."

Dukes nodded and ambled off into the forest. He'd only been gone a minute when James picked up the noise of two pairs of feet approaching; one of them sounded to be limping. His ears were proven right once more; Wraith prodded a soldier into the clearing, and James could see and smell the blood pouring from a graze-wound on his leg. Looked like Wraith had narrowly missed a direct hit. Probably by accident; Wraith was a decent shot, but he was no Zero.

The injured soldier was put with the rest of them, and left under the guard of Wraith. A few moments later a lone pair of footsteps approached, and Victor arrived back at the camp empty-handed. His fatigues were blood-spattered, his hands red with thick liquid. When he saw James' questioning glance, he merely shrugged, and crouched down in front of a puddle of thick black mud that had probably been a natural pond, before mining had started. His gaze went straight to the soldiers, who even though injured, were trying to inch away from him.

"Hey, Wraith," Wade said quietly. "What's big, black, and pissed?" He nodded at Victor, temptingly close to the edge of the mud-pool.

Wraith snorted and shook his head. "Man, he'd rip your spine out just for thinking about it."

The relative silence of the jungle—groaning men and ubiquitous wildlife notwithstanding—was interrupted by the arrival of Stryker, flanked by Bradley and Dukes. He glanced around with aloof indifference at the injured guards and terrified miners, then looked at James questioningly.

"We put Brenner in the far cabin," he told the major. "Zero's eyeballing him."

"Very good. Keep an eye on things out here whilst I have a word with our good doctor."

James gestured for Bradley and Dukes to keep an watch over their prisoners, and then, as surreptitiously as he could manage, he made his way little by little towards the cabin where Stryker was talking with Brenner. Turning so that he was facing towards the jungle, and his ear was angled towards the cabin, he closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose, focusing on his hearing.

"…_very interested in hearing what you've found." Stryker's voice was quiet, controlled. He wasn't a man to lose his temper; James hadn't seen him angry even once._

"_Nothing, we found absolutely nothing!" In contrast, Brenner's voice was high, strained… terrified. "We're here looking for oil, but we've only been operating a few months."_

"_Come now, Doctor Brenner, there's no need for this charade. I know why you're here, I know what this place is, and I know what you're looking for. Now, are you going to tell me what I need to know, or do I need to have my men carve an answer out of your colleagues' flesh?"_

"_I… what do you want to know?" Brenner broke easily, it seemed._

"_What have the results of your tests determined so far?"_

"_Only that the area is rich in tektites and shocked quartz, as we would expect to find at an impact site. Admittedly, there is a higher than normal density of iridium in the area, at what we believe is the K-T boundary, but the layer isn't thick enough to warrant extensive mining operations."_

"_What else?" Stryker did not sound convinced._

"_Nothing. That's all we've found so far, I swear."_

"_Very well. Where do you keep your samples?"_

"_Locked in the cabin that serves as our geology lab. I can take you to them." Brenner sounded desperate._

"_How very thoughtful. Lead the way. If you try to deceive me, your men will die."_

James turned his attention back to the camp as Stryker stepped out of the cabin and nudged Brenner forward. He wasn't entirely sure whether Stryker would order Team X to carry out his threat. If he did, how many of them would refuse to fire on unarmed civilians? Bradley, probably. Wraith, maybe. The rest… he had reservations about the rest. But surely Stryker wouldn't give such an order after telling the team to keep the scientists alive… would he? Perhaps, thought James, this was _why_ he'd kept them alive.

The major glanced around, his gaze settling on the two closest members of Team X.

"Zero, Victor, empty your backpacks and come with me. Dukes, I want this machinery non-operational by the time I'm ready to leave. The rest of you, maintain a watch in case anybody tries to be a hero."

Dukes grunted, and set about pounding the various items of machinery with his rock-hard fists. The miners watched on, expressions of horror painted across their faces as their equipment was ruined. When Zero and Victor followed Stryker into a second cabin, James didn't bother trying to over-hear. He'd already heard everything he needed to. Stryker was looking for something in the rock here, but it didn't sound as if he'd found it. Unless Brenner was lying; but if he was, he was the best damn liar James had ever heard.

Wraith was keeping an armed watch over the injured guards, whilst Bradley looked a little confused that he'd been left to keep an eye on the civilians. He held his gun with confidence, but James knew he wasn't likely to use it on unarmed men. Had the miners and geologists known that, they might have tried their luck at running, but they were too busy flinching each time another piece of equipment exploded in a shower of sparks.

He spotted Wade standing atop a pile of loose stone, a pair of binoculars held to his eyes, and climbed up the small mound to join him at the top.

"What've you got?" he asked.

"Natives," Wade said. "A village, probably a handful of klicks from here. Y'think we're heading there next?"

"I have no damn idea what Stryker's gonna have us do next. Here, let me have a look."

"Knock yourself out," replied Wade, handing over the peepers. "Not a looker amongst them anyway."

As Wade disappeared down the stone pile, James lifted the binoculars, scanning the horizon for the village. He first spotted the tell-tale dark curl of rising smoke, and followed it down to its source. Indeed, there was a small village, its white stone buildings nestled amongst the dark green of the rainforest, wearing the tree canopy like a protective blanket. He hoped the people there had heard the gunfire and fled their homes, to somewhere safer. He hoped that Stryker had gotten what he came for, now that he had whatever samples he was taking from Brenner's team. He hoped that this was the last he'd hear of the Yucatán, because he hadn't signed up to kill men over a few pieces of rock no matter how important the US military thought they might be. Some prices were just too high to pay.

* * *

_Author's Note: The K-T event (or as they're calling it these days, the K-Pg event) was the mass extinction of terrestrial and aquatic dinosaurs (and a bunch of other stuff) caused by the impact, and ensuing global winter, of a comet or large meteor. The impact crater, known as the Chicxulub Crater, can be seen from above, where it forms a semi-circular mountain range in the Yucatán; the remainder is located underwater, in the Gulf of Mexico. Have a look at google images if you'd like to see the remains of the impact crater (and artists' renditions of what the moment of impact may have looked like)._

_Wade's Note: Hey, I figured out how to narrate the notes, too! Can't believe it took me seven chapters to work out how to do this. Is it just me, or is the author a total nerd? Meteor, dinosaurs, global winter, blah blah blah… snore, right? Well, maybe dinosaurs would be cool, but I've skipped ahead to the end and I can tell you for certain that there are __**absolutely no dinosaurs**__ in this story. So if you're reading this story to get the mental pics of a t-rex chomping on some guy in the can, you should just go watch Jurassic Park or something. If you're here to read about __**me**__, however, then keep reading, as this story has lots of me in it! Well alright, it's actually about some guy called James, but most people know him as Logan or __**Wolverine**__. Oops, was I not supposed to say that? Hope I didn't spoil it for anyone! But anyway, even though this story's about some other dude (boo!) the author says I'll get my very own __**sequel**__ if people keep reading this story. So please keep reading… and send __**beer**__! The author likes beer. Just don't send Budweiser… even we __**Canadians**__ know that Bud ain't beer… it's dishwater. Anyway, I'm being glared at, so adios for now! _

_-_o_

_(that's a winking face. I'm winking at __**you**__. Yes, you!)_


	8. End of an Era

No I in Team

* * *

"_The infuriating thing about an individual way of living. People are always angry at anyone who chooses very individual standards for his life; because of the extraordinary treatment which that man grants to himself, they feel degraded, like ordinary beings." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_8. End of an Era_

**Location: Just outside Lagos, Nigeria**

**20,000ft and descending**

**22:30 HRS**

James took a deep breath and tried to silence his stomach, which was currently complaining loudly about Bradley's handling of the airplane. He wasn't a great flier even in the best of circumstances, and these definitely weren't the best of circumstances. There was just something inherently wrong with a man piloting an aircraft using the power of his mind. Granted, Bradley was a qualified pilot, thanks to his extensive military training, but pilots ought to keep their hands on the damn controls… or at least sit in the cockpit so they could see where they were going.

"I've never crashed a plane yet, Logan," Bradley reminded him cheerfully.

"First time for everything," he managed to reply.

"I don't get it, man," said Wraith. "You'll happily charge a dozen armed enemies without any sort of shield, but even the thought of flying makes you go green."

"That's because I know I can survive a bullet-shower. I'm not so sure about a plane crash, and I'd rather not find out."

"Relax, Captain. We'll be on the ground in less than ten minutes," said Bradley.

"Just make sure we get on the ground safely, Bradley. Take extra time, if you need it."

The young mutant closed his eyes and resumed remote-controlling the plane with his mind. He claimed he didn't need to look out of the window, because the plane's equipment told him everything he needed to know about wind speed, air pressure, approach vector, and all sorts of technical sounding stuff that, if interpreted incorrectly, could end in the plane hurtling into the ground in a massive fireball. But Bradley's claims did nothing to calm James' nerves, which made him feel a little guilty. He trusted Bradley… he just didn't trust planes. Too much could go wrong with them.

In the silence of the cabin, small noises stood out. The engines seemed to throb and whirr – was that natural? Hard to say. Each plane engine had its own unique sound, its own voice, just like each person had his own individual voice. What was the engine on the medium-sized cargo plane saying now, he wondered? _Yes, I'll happily land safely on the ground, no problem at all_. That's what the engine sounded like it was saying. It's what he _hoped_ it was saying.

His own heartbeat was a loud, fast-paced drum rhythm inside his head. _Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud_. It seemed to reverberate around his chest as it pushed the blood around his body. The noise was amplified by the hollow, round-walled interior of the plane, echoing his heartbeat back to him. It was a wonder nobody else could hear it, even with their inferior hearing.

A metallic _srrring, srrring_ noise provided a steady counter-rhythm to his heartbeat, a result of Wade sharpening one of his swords, though how he could possibly get his already razor-sharp blades any sharper was a mystery. It wasn't a comforting noise; it spoke of a promise of violence, each _srrring_ a threat of what was to come. The blade's owner was currently involved in a staring contest with Victor, sitting opposite. It was hard to tell which of them was winning. Victor's stare was enough to make most people look away quickly, but Wade's survival instincts were often suspect; this one could go either way.

The remaining sound inside the plane was an amalgamation of eight men breathing, every inhalation and expiration filling the air with quiet sighs. Each of them seemed calm and confident—James' flight-jitters notwithstanding, of course—and through the nausea he felt a moment of pride at how far the team had come. Three years ago, they'd had barely any military experience between them and known 'teamwork' only as a word that was largely alien to them. Even when they'd been making their best attempts in the early days, they'd each been one man for himself, trying to work with other men for themselves.

Now, they were a cohesive, functioning unit. They knew each others' strengths and weaknesses, knew their teammates' limits, and their own, and knew how to work together to accomplish their goals. Of course, there was still some friction, some good-natured mocking and self-important strutting, but that was human nature for you. It didn't change just because the humans in questions were mutants.

James glanced to Stryker, trying to work out why he'd ordered the team to Nigeria. He was being his usual taciturn self, operating on a need-to-know basis. Usually that meant the team only needed to know just before the fighting broke out, and this time was no exception. They'd brought their own weapons along, because when you were flying by military craft you didn't have to worry about customs officers freaking out over the large amount of ordnance in your carry-all. Most of the team had been kitted out with automatic rifles, but Zero had his pistols, and Wade his swords.

There was bumping, jerking motion as the plane touched down on the runway, and James swallowed the lump that tried to stick itself in his throat. It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced… but not bad for a guy who was piloting a plane using only the power of his brain.

"Alright," said Stryker, standing up and addressing the team as the plane came to a stop, "we don't have far to go, and we'll be going there on foot, through one of the more impoverished districts of Lagos. Crime is rife in this area, so don't expect too much shock from the locals over the sight of guns. We'll be heading to the nearby headquarters of a diamond magnate. His name isn't important. What is important is that he has something I need, and his compound will be heavily guarded. Lethal force is authorised and will probably be required for us to gain entry into the premises. We make our way to the top of the building, where I expect to question whoever is left alive. Let's get going. We're in, we do what we need to do, then we're out and back in the sky. No hanging around, boys."

James checked that everyone was locked and loaded, then followed Stryker out of the open plane door. The air was warm, the sky dark, but no stars were visible from the runway; Lagos' population numbered five million or more, and a city that size couldn't help but put out a hell of a lot of ambient light. The whole sky-line was filled with an artificial orange haze, and James wondered how anyone got any sleep with that much unnatural glow saturating the air.

He glanced around, trying to determine where he was in relation to other geographical features. In the near distance were a collection of high-rise buildings and towering sky-scrapers, surrounded by a sprawling jumble of shanty-houses. He could just about detect the smell of the sea on the warm breeze, and judged the coast-line to be a few miles to the east. The airport itself had only one runway, and it was a small one; probably for use by private charter, rather than commercial airlines.

Stryker stopped on the edge of the airfield, and pointed to a tall grey building looming in the distance. "Our destination, Captain. Would you be so good as to lead the way?"

Translated from Stryker-speak to English, that meant, "Will you take point, in case any disgruntled locals decide to try and stop us?" but James merely nodded and stepped forwards, flanked by Dukes and Wraith. He purposely didn't hold his weapon closer as he took the team into the run-down housing district, choosing to appear confident and unconcerned. He knew that if he looked tense and hostile, it would put the locals on edge, and the last thing he wanted was terrified people panicking and causing problems.

As he walked down the dry, dusty streets, trying his best to ignore the smell of too many humans living in close proximity in unsanitary conditions, he heard the scurry of people moving swiftly out of the way, attempting to hide themselves in the shadows. There was no threat, here. The people smelled of caution, but not fear. Stryker was right; the sight of armed men was no surprise here, and the locals seemed to sense that they were not the intended targets of the foreign invaders. Like herds of wildebeest eyeing up a pride of lions in the Savannah, they kept a close watch but did not start a panicked stampede.

There was no direct route from the runway to their destination, and James was forced to lead the team through narrow, warren-like streets. Everywhere he looked he spotted potential ambush locations, but despite the ample opportunity, no ambush came. Either the men in the tower didn't know that Stryker's team was coming for them, or they just didn't care. Either way, their lack of preparation would be to Team X's advantage. Complacent men were either arrogant or foolish; possibly both.

At last there was an end to the rank-smelling streets, the over-flowing sewer-grates and the piles of decomposing food scraps. James stepped out of the shanty and into the clear area around the base of the tower. Team X were clustered behind him; he'd have to have words with them about that, later. A group of men made for a tempting target. The team would have been better spreading out, but with their minds on the task ahead they likely weren't thinking about strategy.

The fortifications around the base of the tower were a little unexpected, but nothing to be too worried about. A dozen armed guards covered the ground level and a raised fortification, a pair of M2 machine guns were mounted behind sandbags, and there was a single, ancient-looking tank. James had gone up against his share of tanks, in World War Two, and he knew their weaknesses well. As for the rest of it… he was content to wait and hear Stryker's plan.

Stryker stepped forward from behind James, and glanced over the tower's defences. He nodded to himself, as if seeing the fortifications confirmed what he'd already known, then gestured to the armed guards.

"Zero?"

The sharp-shooter smiled and strode forward, and when he stepped close enough to the compound gates to be seen, a floodlight picked him up. There was a frenzy of movement behind the chain fence; men scrambled for their weapons, others called for Zero to put his hands behind his head, and had he been anybody other than Zero, their actions might have had use.

As James watched, Zero reached behind his head, to where his pistols were holstered across his shoulders. His fingers sought out the weapon grips with the ease of familiarity, and as he grasped the pistols he brought them up and over his head, both guns firing with deadly precision. The first four men went down before they even had time to clock what was happening. By the time Zero was running forward, the men in the compound were scrambling to action. A hail of gunfire pounded the perimeter of the compound, countered by Zero taking out the two men behind the M2s. The sharp-shooter launched himself up and over the compound gate, his mutant agility and reflexes carrying him easily over the barbed wire as his pistols continued to shoot with practised regularity.

James pitied the men who fell. They'd been hired to stop local thugs and rival gangs from invading the compound; they hadn't trained to fight against mutants, who had natural advantages, and they stood no chance of succeeding against such well-armed, well-trained opponents. Zero's swift reflexes and damn-near perfect aim made him a potent weapon, and unfortunately for these local toughs, he was aimed right at them.

A mechanical hum filled the outer compound, and James saw movement from the corner of his eye. The turret of the tank was being turned towards the remainder of the group; their presence had finally been noticed.

"Fred?" said Stryker.

"The tank?" the big man asked.

"The tank."

"Yeah, I got that."

Fred ambled casually over to the heavily armoured tank, and peered down the cannon of the main gun. As it prepared to fire, he stuck his large hand into the mouth of the gun, plugging it with his fist. There was a loud boom, and the force of the blast, with no way of travelling forwards, instead was sent back along the length of the gun, causing an explosion in the vehicle's interior. A fireball consumed it, the plates expanding out briefly with the force of the blast, and the whole thing began to smoke.

Victor grinned, pleased with the carnage. "Having fun yet?" he said quietly to his brother.

"Victor," said Stryker, "that explosion couldn't have gone unnoticed. Go topside and keep a look out. If anybody tries to escape, break a couple of limbs."

James watched as Victor loped forwards and extended his claws, latching on to the side of the building. The specially designed boots on his feet gave him a similar grip, and he seemed to flow vertically up the building wall, his body unnaturally defying gravity as he launched himself higher and higher without losing any momentum. It was a feat that should have been impossible, and _was_ impossible… for normal men. For a mutant like Victor, it was just one more trick up the proverbial sleeve.

"Area secure, sir," called Zero. Looking around at the carnage, James saw only piles of bodies, men who had died in the places they had fallen. Some of the corpses still twitched, their muscles in spasm, faces going vacant, eyes going glassy. Sixteen, he counted. Sixteen bloody, holey bodies, and that wasn't even counting the pair in the tank. Sixteen men killed in the space of thirty seconds, and Zero hadn't even broken a sweat.

The sudden weight of that fact hit James, just as the sharp, metallic smell of still-warm blood assaulted his nose, taking him back to every battle and skirmish and war ever fought. He wasn't in Nigeria anymore, he was in in the US during the civil war; he was in the dank, cold trenches of World War One; he was parachuting behind enemy lines in World War Two; he was back in Vietnam, watching Victor crush the wind-pipe of a superior officer with his bare hands; he was in a dozen, no, a hundred, small fights and bar-brawls, each of which hand ended with blood being shed, limbs being broken, and sometimes, lives being lost. Suddenly, he felt every single death as a weight upon his shoulders.

"Good work, Zero," said Stryker. He strode towards the sharp-shooter at the building entrance, stepping over the bodies as if they were nothing but sacks of potatoes. "Keep watch out here in case the men inside have called for back-up. The rest of you are with me."

The rest of the team followed Stryker into the building. James pulled himself together, trying to shake off the excess weight of guilt and death, and with Dukes he took point, senses alert for any further signs of life. When he heard a quiet sniffling sound, James narrowed his eyes, and tracked the noise to a nearby door. He pulled it open, extended the claws from his hand, and lifted it to strike.

He was met by the sight of two women cowering in what turned out to be a janitorial closet. Their eyes were large and terrified in their dark faces, and each of them clutched rosary beads in their hands, praying quietly under their breath in thick accents. He lowered his fist, retracting the bone claws, wrinkling nose at the scent of fear that he picked up from the women.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay here and keep quiet," he said.

They nodded, still praying, and he saw true fear in their eyes. They didn't know that he wouldn't harm civilians, that he'd rather cut off his own arm than hurt a woman. They couldn't smell how genuine he was being, and they wouldn't believe any reassurances he gave them. And right then, it hit him. He was one of the bad guys. Somewhere, over the past three years, he'd gone from 'protect and serve' to 'invade and slaughter,' and now the very people who should have felt safe with him around, instead felt as if their lives were in danger.

_This is what the US government stands for?_ he thought. If so, then black-ops was a lot blacker than he'd ever suspected. There were times, like this, when he felt less like a government operative and more like the leader of Stryker's own private task-force. Hell, as far as he knew, the government wasn't involved in any of this at all. Perhaps it was all just one big con, designed to fool him, and the other mutants, into believing they were working for the good guys.

But… no. That was foolish paranoia. Wasn't it?

"Are you coming, Logan?" Stryker asked.

James closed the cupboard and glanced at Stryker. He was standing in front of an elevator, into which the rest of the Team X were walking. All he could do was hope the women would be smart enough to stay put; if they tried to run, Zero would probably shoot them. And if they were _really_ unlucky, Victor would get to them first.

He joined the rest of the team in the elevator, and the doors closed behind him. Naturally, cheesy elevator music was was playing quietly in the background, some song that was probably meant to be soothing but in actual fact was damn irritating. For a moment he considered asking Bradley to change the track; then the elevator stopped climbing. The whole thing went black, and the emergency lighting came on instead, painting the boxlike interior, and its occupants, in a greenish tinge. James heard the man closest to the control panel push one of the buttons a couple of times, but nothing happened.

"Great," said Wade. "Stuck in an elevator with five guys on a high-protein diet."

Stryker sighed. "Wade…" he warned.

"Dreams really do come true."

"Just shut it," said Stryker, in a rare show of impatience. "You're up next." From opposing corners of the elevator, Bradley, Dukes and Wraith grinned, filling the elevator with the scent of humour.

"Thank you, sir. You look really nice today. It's the green; brings out the seriousness in your eyes."

"Oh my God, do you ever shut up?!" Logan demanded, though he already knew the answer.

"No, not when I'm awake."

"Bradley, top floor, please," said Stryker.

James couldn't see the young mutant's face, but he knew he'd closed his eyes and tapped into his power, because a moment later the elevator started moving again and the full lights came back on. The smell of humour dissipated as the elevator continued its ascent, and as the indicator light reached the penultimate floor, Stryker gestured for everybody to stand to the sides and give Wade room.

Nobody needed telling twice. Everybody except James, and Victor who was on the roof, was wearing a bullet proof vest, because a single hit could be fatal – or in the case of Fred Dukes, very painful. Whoever was standing on the other side of the doors obviously knew that the elevator was full of enemies, and that their attempts to shut the elevator down had failed. They'd be prepared, now, and if the fortifications on the outside of the building were any indication, they'd be prepared with a considerable amount of weaponry. None of Team X wanted to stand in the way of a lethal stray bullet… or Wade's katanas.

"Time to go to work," said Wade, as the elevator reached the top floor.

The doors opened and the former merc stepped forward, swords already whirling at top speed, a flashy accompaniment to the sound of automatic weapons fire. Over the sound of the gunfire, James was just about able to make out quiet metallic _chink_ noises, which told him Wade was on top form today. The louder _thunk_ noise was bodies hitting the floor, and James counted eight of them. Then a moment of silence, followed by more gunfire, more deflected bullets, and then a more organic, visceral sound; metal slicing through flesh. Two last _thunks_ ended the show.

"Okay," Wade called. "People are dead."

Stryker stepped out of the elevator, and James followed suit, accompanied by the rest of the team. The major strode forward, ignoring the bodies and the puddles of blood they lay in. James didn't have that luxury; the scent of blood, horrible and sharp and metallic, assaulted his nose, making bile rise in his throat. It was always worse indoors, with no fresh air to disperse the stench.

"If you didn't have that mouth on you, Wade, you'd be the perfect soldier," Stryker said, smelling of barely discernible satisfaction. He was always pleased when his weapons performed to high standards. Wade merely gave a parody of a salute, and stepped back, allowing Stryker to approach the man sitting behind the desk at the far end of the room.

Movement from the corner of James' eye caught his attention, and his head snapped to the left, where he saw a row of tables, and smelt fear and confusion. Then he saw them; men and women huddled behind the desks, staring in fear at the intruders, their worried eyes glancing to the fallen guards. James counted twelve of them in total; six on the left, six on the right. Civilians, one for each desk. He had to give Wade his due; not a single one of the civilians had been hit by a reflected bullet. The man might be an unrelenting verbal pain in the ass most of the time, but when it came to this sort of precision work, he was second to none.

What the hell had Stryker brought them here for? Diamond magnates were not the usual target for US black-ops. At first, James had thought that this might be another Bertelli situation, with the diamond tycoon dabbling in international crime which directly affected America. Now, he saw that couldn't possibly be true. Though this building had been well-guarded, it looked to be a fairly small operation. If a man could make his fortune in diamonds, why did he need to run guns, or smuggle drugs, or resort to blackmail? Diamonds did not depreciate as easily as money.

Suddenly, Wraith teleported, appearing by the side of the man behind the desk.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you, brother," he said, lifting the man's hand from below the desk.

James mentally kicked himself. He should have seen that. Should have anticipated further resistance. But he'd been too concerned with the safety of the civilians to think about retaliation. Luckily, Wraith had been on his guard, otherwise this op might have ended bloody. Well, bloodier.

"Take the diamonds," said the man behind the desk. "They are yours."

"I don't want your diamonds," said Stryker. He stepped forward and picked up a chunk of metallic rock that James hadn't noticed until now. "I want this."

"That? It is nothing. A souvenir."

"Where did you find it? I want the source."

For a moment, James thought the man wasn't going to reply; his smell was confusing, fear and anger and defiance all mixed in together with suspicion and a lack of understanding. But the guy's survival instincts appeared to be intact, because at last he replied.

"A small village. Far inland. Three days from here."

Stryker pulled a folded-up map from one of his pockets and dropped it on the table. "You're going to mark the village on the map, and I suggest you think carefully about where you mark it, because if it's wrong, we're going to come back and ask you again. Only next time, my men won't be so polite."

The man looked around at the dead bodies, and James could almost hear his thoughts. _This is __**polite**__? _It wasn't as if he had much choice, though. All of his guards were dead; there was nobody left to protect him. But it wasn't all bad. Guards could be replaced, and Stryker had no interest in taking the diamonds. If making a mark on a map was all it took to get rid of this American and his bunch of freakish soldiers, then so be it. At least he still had his life, and his wealth. He picked up a pen and made an X mark on the map.

Stryker said nothing; merely picked up the map and turned back towards the elevator. Dukes, Bradley and Wade followed him, and James took a last look at the frightened faces of the civilians. He'd seen their expressions a dozen times. A hundred times. Too many times to remember each one. The shell-shocked looks on their faces were echoed throughout his long years of fighting and killing. But he'd never been the source of that look before. It had always been a symptom of something larger; wars which sucked up everyone in their wake, air raids which devastated towns and cities… never before had innocent people had cause to fear _him_. He realised, then, than in joining Team X, in working for the US government, he'd become part of something larger. A small cog in a big engine, powerless to halt the machine from within. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Y' coming, Logan?" Wraith asked. He'd paused by the elevator, his rifle, as yet unfired, held casually across his chest.

"Yeah, I'm coming," he replied. But, for the first time, he wished he could disobey his orders. He wished he had the strength to just walk away.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Unnamed village**

**Three days travel from Lagos**

**23:00 HRS**

_"For three days, Team X walked through the dense, hot jungle. Their goal; an X marked on a map, put there by an unreliable source. What would they find when they reached their destination? They did not know, but they walked anyway. Their diet of polystyrene-flavoured military rations was supplemented by watermelon and mango and, in the case of Victor, a chimpanzee which had been stupid enough to venture down to ground level. Conditions were grim; the heat and humidity were almost unbearable and insects swarmed both day and night, biting at hard, sweat-slicked bodies that glistened alluringly in the sunlight._

_For three days they walked through that torturous terrain, hacking at plants and sometimes animals, until at last they reached their destination, that tiny little black ink X smack bang in the middle of nothing but trees. It was night time, the sun long past fading from the sky, and the team clustered together in the shelter of the trees, just on the outskirts of the village, hidden from the firelight by the dancing shadows of the jungle. There, they stood, tense and alert, waiting for their next orders."_

"Who are you even talking to?" Zero demanded.

"My adoring fans," said Wade. "Just giving them the short version of how we got here."

"Enough of this," Stryker said. "Now isn't the time for games. We have a job to do."

"What job?" James demanded. "What are we even doing here?"

"The work of the US military, Logan. I don't question my orders, and neither should you. Now, Wade, did you learn the language, like I asked?"

"It was difficult," replied Wade. "Nowhere near as easy as Italian. Took me two days to—"

"I didn't ask for your goddamn life story, Wade. Just answer the question."

Wade rolled his eyes at Logan—the heat seemed to make the Major grouchy—before turning his attention back to Stryker. "Yessir, language learned, sir."

"Good. Logan, I want you and the rest of the team to round up the villagers and put them in the village centre. Wade, find the chief and separate him from the others. Bradley, contact base and let them know we've reached our destination."

Bradley nodded. 'Base' was a small group of soldiers who'd already been waiting in Lagos for the team's arrival. Stryker had checked in with them after raiding the diamond magnate's compound, and they'd provided a couple of jeeps to take the team as far into the jungle as the vehicles could manage. Most of the journey had, unfortunately, been on foot.

Whilst Bradley was busy with comms, James gestured for the rest of the team to follow him closer to the village.

"Wraith, Dukes," he instructed, "circle around to the other side of the camp. Wraith, you're on round-up duty. Zero, Wade, head on in the opposite direction in case anyone tries to flee towards the river. They've probably got small boats moored nearby, and if they make it to them, we'll never catch them. Victor, you're with me."

He'd learnt long ago to keep Victor within his sights. Even when he was being watched, though, his behaviour remained erratic. Victor was a volatile man, liable to burst into a fit of violent rage at any minute. Usually, blood was the trigger, but sometimes it could be something as innocuous as a look. If Victor thought someone was looking at him 'funny,' then God help that man.

Wraith teleported with Dukes, who wasn't prone to moving silently, and both Wade and Zero disappeared into the jungle. There was a time when James would have needed to use a radio to co-ordinate the attack, but three years of working with his team had taught him a lot about timing. He knew that Wraith and Dukes would already be in place, and that it would take the other pair only five minutes to reach their assigned points.

When he judged the time to be right, he glanced at Victor and nodded. His brother smiled, cracked his knuckles, and stepped forward. James followed close, prepared to hold Victor back if necessary.

The first of the villagers saw one of Team X approaching, and raised the alarm. Men and women began to flee, shouting in a language James did not understand. He saw Wraith teleport to block off the escape of two women, and Wade move to intercept a group of men. James no longer had to say 'no casualties' before every mission. His men knew him well enough, by now. They knew how he worked, how he ran the team whenever Stryker gave a loose rein. They knew that killing, unless told to kill, would land not just themselves in trouble, but the rest of the team along with them. Even Sun Tzu would have been impressed by their efficiency.

It was chaos, but Team X were used to operating under conditions like these. The semi-darkness was no barrier for them, not just because they were mutants, but because James had trained them long and hard in night-time manoeuvres. As the villagers ran, the team rounded them up, Wraith teleporting to and fro, Victor pouncing on an unwary victim here and there, Zero and Wade working together to intercept stragglers. James used his heightened senses to track down a couple that the others missed, and marched them back to the centre of the village.

The stench of fear was palpable, flooding the air, making James feel sick. There were times that he wished he could just give up his superior senses, and this was one of them. He couldn't help but feel choked by the panic, couldn't help but see the confusion painted on the men, women and children who'd been rounded up and forced onto their knees by armed invaders. Whatever Stryker's reason for bringing them here, it better be a damn good one. These people didn't deserve the treatment they were receiving at the hands of a government which sold itself as the lesser of two evils. Invading place by force, using fear and coercion on helpless citizens… these were the actions the Americans accused the _Russians_ of. How conveniently they could forget that fact, to serve their own interests.

Stryker strode into the village centre, followed by Bradley. Wade had singled out one of the men, an ebony-skinned guy wearing a colourful shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of dusty brown sandals. The man's face was lined, but not overly so, and he showed only the faintest spattering of grey in his hair.

"This is the village's chief?" asked Stryker.

"Yes sir," replied Wade.

The major shrugged off his backpack and opened it up, taking out the shiny piece of rock he'd appropriated from the compound in Lagos.

"Tell him this rock is more valuable to me than his life." There was a hard look in Stryker's eyes. "Ask him where he found it."

Wade obeyed, speaking in the same language that the villagers had spoken. The man replied, a fast stream of words, but Wade cut him off and said something in a questioning tone. The man replied again, then Wade looked up at Stryker.

"Okay." There was a confused look on his face. "He says it came from the sky."

Suddenly, pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in James' mind. The rock, the mission to the geology camp in the Yucatán, now this village… Stryker was looking for something that didn't belong. Something from outer space. But… a meteor? That seemed a little contrived. Perhaps what Stryker was _really_ looking for was an alien ship. James wasn't sure whether he believed in aliens or not, but alien technology sounded like a more feasible target for the US military than space rocks.

He saw Stryker glaring at the man, and spoke up.

"He's telling the truth."

"You don't know the language, Logan," Stryker countered.

"It's a meteor fragment."

"I know what it is. I'm asking him where he found it."

"Sir," Bradley interrupted, his hand to his temple as he received a transmission, "base wants an update."

"Shut them down."

"Yes." Bradley nodded, and severed the connection. Ordinarily, comms to a place three days' journey away would have been impossible, but it was little issue for a guy who could bounce electrical waves off a satellite using only the power of his mind.

Stryker stepped forward, closer to the chief, and leaned down in front of him with the rock held out. "Tell him everyone here will die unless he tells me where he found the rock."

James held his breath for a second, trying to determine whether that was an empty threat, and decided it wasn't. Stryker really would order the deaths of everyone in this village just to get his hands on the source of the rock. It meant that much to him, and he was so desperate to find it, that he would massacre men, women and children. That threat finally gave James the courage and motivation he needed. This was it. He was done. He wasn't going to hurt another person under Stryker's command. Regardless of what happened here tonight, James' part in it was over. He looked up, trying to catch Victor's eye, to convey to him that this had gone too far, and when Victor saw his expression, he smiled. James shook his head, making it an official command, but he suspected Victor wasn't listening anymore. Maybe he'd never been listening at all.

Wade conveyed Stryker's words to the chief and there was further discussion. At last Wade sighed, and gave a small shrug of defeat.

"He says that it's sacred."

"Okay, fine." Stryker stood up and turned away, laying his free hand on Victor's shoulder. "Victor?"

It was not only a word, it was a command. To Victor, it was an invitation to do violence, and it made James' heart freeze. He tried to catch Victor's eye again, to tell his brother to stop, but realisation hit him like a punch to the stomach. Victor didn't care about going too far. He followed the orders of whoever gave him permission to do violence, not because of some sense of loyalty, but because it served his own desires. Over the decades, James had told himself that Victor's mistakes were not his fault, that his mutant genes caused him to get caught up in the moment, and lose himself to the animal within. Well, James had an animal within, too, but he knew how to control it. He _chose_ to control it. Victor welcomed his own animal with open arms.

A languid smile of pleasure stole across Victor's face as he looked down at his helpless victim. James watched in horror as his brother reached out and with no more effort than if he was plucking a flower, snapped the neck of the village chief.

It was like throwing a match into dry kindling. As the body slumped to the floor, women began to scream, and the whole village erupted to chaos. People jumped to their feet and began to run. James saw Bradley fend off a man who tried to grab his rifle, and the flash of Wade's blade as they were unsheathed, but he didn't have time to react to either. The _blam blam blam_ of Zero's guns caught his attention, filling his ears with that deafening thunder-crash, and he saw bodies fall. He launched himself at Zero, knocking the marksman to the floor, then pushed himself up quickly. Victor had just grabbed another villager, and was preparing to make mincemeat out of the man's face with his claws.

James reached his brother just in time, catching Victor's falling hand in his own. Victor looked at him, confusion flickering through eyes which mostly portrayed intoxicated excitement. Tension thrummed through the air, filling every muscle in James body until it seemed that something had to break or bend. His arm began to shake with the effort of holding Victor's hand away from his victim's throat.

"Don't even think about it," he growled under his breath. Victor grimaced and tried to free his hand. "We didn't sign up for this," James told his brother. "Put him down."

Victor finally released his hold on the villager, and James let go of his brother's arm. He took the opportunity to glance around at the rest of the team, saw that the panic had mostly died down. There were some bodies on the ground, courtesy of Zero's guns, Wade's swords and Victor's hands. Dukes, Wraith and Bradley had, thankfully, hesitated before opening fire with their rifles, and a good job too, because at such close quarters it would have been a blood-bath of friendly fire.

"What are you doing?" Victor demanded. His breathing was heavy, rapid, but James could see the adrenaline wearing off now that the fighting had stopped. "We finally got a good thing here. Don't you screw this up."

"That's enough, Victor. We've done enough." For the first time in three years, he realised how tired he truly was. Not physically tired, but mentally and emotionally. Three years of leading the team—of following orders he didn't trust and being responsible for things which, once upon a time, would have shamed him—had left him feeling exhausted.

"Who do you think you are?" Victor growled. "This is what we do. Maybe you'd rather be rotting in a hole somewhere, till they figure out a way to do it to us. Is that it? Huh?"

"I'm done," James said. He looked his brother straight in the eyes. "You coming?"

There was no reply. There didn't _need_ to be a reply. James could see the answer clearly in Victor's eyes. _No. He wasn't coming._ Victor had finally found a place where he could be as violent as he wanted and still enjoy the perks of a civilised life. He wouldn't leave, even if it meant losing his brother.

James turned and walked away from the firelight, setting his sights on the tree-line, feeling with every step as if a weight was being released from his shoulders. He was almost to the trees when a voice stopped him mid-stride.

"Jimmy!"

He turned back to look at his brother.

"We can't just let you walk away."

Fighting back a snarl of disgust, James reached up to his chest and pulled off his dog-tags, felt the chain snap easily as he yanked it away from his skin. Then, he tossed them down, and they landed beside one of the blood-soaked bodies. Never again would he wear such chains. They were shackles which tied him to a life he didn't want to live, and a person he didn't want to be. Victor was wrong. He _could_ just walk away. They couldn't stop him, and they all knew it. They knew what he was capable of. Just because he kept the animal inside leashed didn't mean that he wasn't capable of letting it out, when needed.

He turned back to the forest, felt the leaves sweep against his skin as if welcoming him home. The smell of blood began to fade, the tension in the air began to dissipate, and every step that took him further from the village, took him closer to his new life. He didn't have a damn clue about what to do next, but he did know one thing; it would be something of his own choice. He would never let himself be used again.

"Jimmy!"

Victor's call was like a cry of pain which echoed throughout the jungle, but James ignored it. He'd given Victor a choice, and Victor had chosen to stay. To be a tool of a government which cared nothing for the sanctity of life. He'd chosen his own pleasure and comfort over family, and James would not forget that fact.

A clap of thunder echoed around the sky, preceded by a flash of light, and the air seemed to grow cooler. James smiled to himself.

"_Jimmy!"_


	9. Mary Celeste

No I in Team

* * *

"_The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.__" —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_9. Mary Celeste_

**Location: Secret Soviet Communications Outpost**

**Kalmykia Oblast, USSR**

**13:50 HRS**

John Wraith stepped carefully over the bodies, searching for the source of the sound. He finally found it, in the form of a Soviet guard who'd managed to drag himself away from the carnage before succumbing to his injuries. Now he lay groaning in agony as his guts spilled out over the ground. Evisceration wouldn't kill him directly, but his intestines, exposed to the open air, would soon start to dry out, and that _would_ kill him, over a period of long and excruciatingly painful hours. When he heard John approach, the soldier lifted his head and said something in Russian.

"I have no idea what you just said, friend," John replied, "but you're lucky I'm here."

He lifted his rifle and fired several shots into the man's head. A spray of bullets, a spatter of blood, and the pained groaning ceased. John looked around at the rest of the corpses. One or two had been shot or stabbed, but most had been savaged; ripped-out throats, cracked skulls, bodies flung around like rag-dolls by Victor in a furious rage. His rages had gotten worse since Logan had left; now, he didn't hold back at all. His aggression went mostly unchecked. Stryker seemed to care little for the body count, and Logan had been the only other one who could keep his brother from going too far. Without anyone to leash him, he'd become violence incarnate.

Victor wasn't the only thing that had changed, recently. From time to time, Stryker had Team X hunt down other mutants, capture them alive and bring them in so they could be shipped off to some government facility. Stryker claimed the mutants they hunted were dangerous, and that Team X was protecting people by capturing violent mutants, but Wraith had stopped believing that after the third mutant they captured, a young woman who couldn't have been more than twenty years old. She'd had the power to… well, not turn herself invisible, but blend in with the background. Camouflage. Wraith just couldn't figure out how a young woman in college who could do nothing but camouflage herself, was a threat to national security, and the capture of mutants hadn't sat right with him since then.

But at least they captured the mutants alive. It was more than could be said for Team X's current victims.

"This ain't right," he said, half to himself, half to Dukes, who was on look-out duty with him.

"What ain't right?"

"This!" He gestured around at the bodies.

Dukes ran his eyes over them. "They're the enemy."

"If Logan were here, he'd have ordered us to capture rather than kill."

"Well, Logan isn't here," Dukes pointed out. "He left."

"I know he left. And I'm beginning to think he had the right idea."

It still stung, how easily Logan had been able to drop it all and quit. After all his talk of teamwork and co-operation, he'd cut and run as soon as the work started making him uncomfortable. Victor was right; Logan _was_ selfish. But the way John figured it, a man had the right to be selfish, every once in a while, and he had to admit that Logan had done an otherwise great job. One only had to take a look at Bradley, to see just how good a job Logan had done. When Bradley had first arrived at Bunker Five, he'd been a twitchy kid who jumped at his own shadow, and Wraith had mentally given him about eight months before he either cracked and ran, or died. But here he was, three years plus change later, going as strong as any of them.

In the near distance, a temple bell rang out, and Wraith turned his dark eyes towards the monastery. He'd ignored it at first, because it wasn't part of the mission, and frankly, he hadn't expected to find a Buddhist temple in Russia. Now, though, he could see robed individuals going about their daily work, tending their gardens, touching up parts of the temple with a fresh coat of paint, and generally doing their best to ignore the fact that all of ten minutes ago their quiet little neighbourhood had sounded like a war zone.

"I hope this doesn't go down like that village outside Lagos," he said quietly.

"It coulda been worse," Dukes shrugged. "At least we left most of them alive. And Stryker got his rocks. So that's the end of it. Right?"

"Who're you trying to convince? Me, or _you_?" John asked.

Dukes shrugged again, and John shook his head. Dukes wasn't a bad guy… not really. Sure, he was slow on the uptake sometimes, but he hadn't joined the military to shoot people up. Especially not unarmed civilians. He just wanted to do his duty and earn his wage. Overall, he was a pretty transparent man… for his size.

When he heard the rest of the team return from the bowels of the secret communications bunker, John turned and gave them the once-over. Stryker looked displeased, Wade bored, Bradley concerned, Victor eager and Zero… well, it was hard to say. The man was as cold as a stone, and now that the main source of his displeasure—aka, Logan—was gone, it was even harder to judge his moods.

"Did you get everything you needed, sir?" John asked of Stryker. He had no idea what the major had brought Bradley in to hack, and he didn't really care. That info was for the bigwigs and the brass to know. For all John was concerned, it was the Russian recipe for goulash that Bradley had intercepted.

"No," said Stryker curtly. His face was dark, like a thunderstorm waiting to brew. "This… facility is empty. A decoy. These guards were protecting an abandoned concrete bunker."

Wraith shook his head. What a waste of life. Had the guards _known_ they were protecting nothing but an empty shell? And if they'd known it, would they still have stood and fought despite Victor's onslaught?

"Does that mean we're heading back to base camp?" asked Dukes.

Stryker shook his head. "My superiors in Washington were _certain_ this was the place. We know there's something here. Perhaps underground, or hidden in another location. Bradley, scan the airwaves for radio signals, see if you can pinpoint the location nearby."

Bradley nodded his head and closed his eyes. John watched his expression as emotions flickered across his face. Poor Bradly hadn't had an easy time of it since Logan had left. He'd always been frightened of Victor, and now, with no-one to keep a check on Creed, Bradley was more scared than ever.

"Well?" Stryker demanded, after a few moments of silence.

Bradley opened his eyes, and they looked troubled. "Err."

"Would you care to elaborate, Bradley?"

"Well, sir, I've detected some radio signals being transmitted and received. I can't say for certain that it's from the comms bunker, because the messages are encrypted. And, well… in Russian, sir."

"That's okay, Wade can translate them later."

"Wait a minute… I don't speak Russian," Wade said.

"Not yet. But you will, soon. Now, Bradley, tell me where the radio chatter's centred."

Bradley hesitated, the first time John had ever seen him do so. Then he lifted his arm, and pointed at something in the distance. John didn't turn to follow the direction of his finger. He didn't _need_ to. He already knew what Bradley was pointing at, and it made his stomach feel cold inside.

"Then that's where we're heading," said Stryker. "Victor, you're on point. Zero, bring up the rear." When only Victor and Zero moved, Stryker turned a questioning glance on the rest of the team. "Well?"

"Umm… Buddhists, sir?" Wade said. "Aren't they… well… sorta pacifistic?"

"In which case, they shouldn't offer any opposition."

"You're afraid of a few monks, Wilson?" Zero said, a half-smile curling one corner of his lips.

"I kinda draw the line at killing funny little bald men in dresses," Wade countered. "Tell you what; if they happen to be Shaolin monks, then I'm more than willing to introduce them to Mr. Pointy and Mr. Stabby. I figure that'll be a fairer fight."

"You named your swords?" asked Bradley.

"So? People name their children. I don't see much difference."

"Let's get one thing straight," Stryker said, stepping between the pair to get their attention. "This, gentleman, is the army. If you're not the one giving orders, then you're following them. This isn't a democracy, and I'm not your mother, so if you want to talk about your feelings, do it in your own free time. Now, I'm _ordering_ Team X to infiltrate and secure that building with whatever force is necessary. If anybody has a problem with that, feel free to take it up with your Captain."

Victor gave them one of his creepy smiles. When Stryker had promoted Victor to captain a week after Logan's leaving, John had thought the guy was nuts. Then he'd thought that the guy was actually very clever. Whoever played captain after Logan had some big boots to fill, and Victor had _always_ had something of a rivalry with his brother. Siblings; who'd have 'em? At any rate, Stryker was doing his best to keep Victor sweet. Zero hated the whole situation of course, because it meant his master had a new lapdog, but as far as John was concerned, Victor made a poor team leader. He just wasn't command material, and everybody knew it. Even Victor. Which, of course, made him even more pissed off and violent.

Stryker was a smart man indeed.

"I hope this won't get me barred from Mensa," Wade sighed, falling into line behind Victor. Bradley hesitated for the second time, then joined Wade. John shared a glance with Dukes, and then they followed too. The bell continued to peal.

"This ain't right," Dukes rumbled quietly, for John's ears alone.

"Great, _now_ he gets it," said John.

"So what're we going to do about it?"

"Don't see there's anything we _can_ do. We're in the middle of goddamn Russia, at the mercy of a madman, being led by a lunatic. Do _you_ want to say no to Stryker, with Victor breathing down your neck? If we disappeared out here, no-one would ever question it. Just two guys killed in a dangerous black-ops mission, right? Man, they wouldn't even admit that we existed in the first place."

"So… we wait until we're home. And then what?"

"Well," said John, "as a wise man once said, you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run."

Dukes looked thoughtful for a moment. "Gandhi, right?"

John shook his head. "Yeah, Fred. Gandhi. Anyway, what I'm saying is that when we get back, we do it all proper. Submit our resignations, cash in our cheques and accept whatever pension we can get out of 'em. We do it all right, in a way that suggests we might be useful guys to keep around for the future. After all, Team X isn't the be-all end-all of the military, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," said Dukes. "Might be a good time to open that restaurant I've been thinking about."

"You bet it's the right time." He reloaded his rifle, and set his eyes on the nearby Buddhist temple, where monks were starting to flee in fear. It wouldn't do them any good; Victor was like a damn bloodhound, once he got a scent. "One last job, and then we fold. Cut our losses and go. No turning back."

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Bunker Five**

**21:35 HRS**

Bradley looked at the cards in his hand.

"Got a ten?"

"Go fish," Wade replied. "Hmm… got any sixes?"

With a sigh, Bradley handed one of his cards over. As he did, he glanced over the top of the remaining few, quickly checking that Victor was still crashed out in front of the TV. Not that he needed to check; Victor's snores should have been enough. But where Victor was concerned, he wasn't going to take any chances.

It was rec time for Team X… or at least, what was left of it. Wraith and Dukes had resigned from active duty over seven months ago now, and though Bradley had wanted to leave with them, he'd been too afraid, at the time, to speak up. He was afraid because he knew there was nothing for him, outside of this bunker. Unlike most of the other team members, he had no particular skills or talents that would lend themselves to employment in the civilian section… other than, perhaps, taking a job as an electrician, which just didn't appeal.

Stryker was away from base, visiting his family for a few days. Victor had drilled the team hard throughout the day, much harder than Logan ever had. He'd kept them going from sun-up till sun-down, and by the time they'd trudged back to Bunker Five, all mud-covered and scratched up, even Zero and Wade were weary. Bradley was exhausted, but he forced himself to be here, because otherwise he'd only spend the evening in his room, worrying about his plan. Victor could smell fear; everybody knew it. He was like a bloody dog. Or a wolf.

Zero was seated at a different table, cleaning his guns, and had declined a game of poker. When Victor, after several cans of beer, had fallen asleep on the sofa, Bradley had managed to pry Wade away from his 'Test Your Own IQ' book for long enough to play a few games of Go Fish.

"If you keep looking at him like that, someone's gonna get the wrong idea," said Wade.

Bradley turned his attention back to his cards, but his heart wasn't truly in it. Wade was already four games up, which was pretty much typical. Bradley never won at anything. He always came in last. That's why he didn't usually bother even trying to compete.

"He wants to kill me," he said, hoping that by confiding some of his fears to another person, it might make them… less. "I can see it in his eyes, every time he looks at me. He thinks that I'm weak, that I slow the team down. If Stryker let him, he'd kill me in a heartbeat. Or, well, probably not a heartbeat. He'd do it slowly."

"Well," Wade said, in a cheerful tone, "if it makes you feel any better, the moment I hear that Victor's going to kill you, I'll do it first. Quick and mostly painless. A mercy-killing sorta thing. Would you prefer decapitation, or asphyxiation?"

"Y'know, that _really_ doesn't make me feel any better, Wade."

"Not now, no, but it'll make you feel _much_ better when you find me knocking on your bedroom door one day, rather than Victor." Wade leant forwards, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Or Zero, for that matter. He doesn't like women, y'know. You _definitely_ don't wanna find _him_ knocking on your bedroom door."

Bradley rolled his eyes. Wade turned pretty much _everything_ into a joke. It was the only reason Bradley had stuck around this long. But there was only so far jokes could take you, and with Victor growing more and more unpredictable by the day, Bradley knew his time had come. He'd been waiting for this moment for weeks. Waiting for the perfect opportunity. When Stryker had informed the Team he'd be taking a few days of personal leave, Bradley's heart had almost leapt out of his chest. He knew that it was going to be now or never, so he'd formulated his escape plan. He wasn't brave enough to stand in front of Stryker and say that he wanted out, so he was going to do what he'd done years before, when his parents had found out he was a mutant and pretty much disowned him. He was going to run, and keep running until he found a place where nobody knew his name.

"How's the book going?" he asked, nodding at the paperback test-book by Wade's arm.

The former merc sighed. "Terrible."

"But I thought you were really smart? I mean, Mensa-smart."

"I am, for sure. But the book is sooooo boooooring," Wade complained. "The logic puzzles weren't so bad, but mostly it's just maths. I _hate_ maths. And number sequences. Fastest way to put me to sleep is by showing me a sequence of numbers and asking me to say what comes next."

"So what you're saying is that finding out your own IQ is too… boring?"

"Yeah." Wade flicked the book, and it landed on the floor. "I wish there was a more exciting way of doing it. Like, keeping a running tally of your bodycount on a high-casualty mission. But I guess the guys who wrote those stupid books didn't take into account the fact that I have the attention span of a—ooh, shiny!"

Wade reached down and picked up something sparkling from the floor, near where his book had fallen. It turned out to be a small diamanté hairpin.

"Must be Gina's," Bradley said with a smile. Gina, one of Bunker Five's gourmet chefs, was nice, but she didn't loiter around the rec room quite as much now that Dukes was gone and Victor was in charge. Bradley suspected she didn't like the way Creed looked at her.

"Guess I'll give it back to her tomorrow." A thoughtful look entered his hazel eyes. "Hmm, d'ya think—"

"No," Bradley said immediately.

"You didn't even give me chance to finish!" whined Wade.

"You didn't need to finish. I don't think Gina would be interested. She was pretty sweet on Dukes. I think she was cut-up when he left." Wade opened his mouth, and Bradley interrupted him. "And no, I don't think this is the appropriate time for one of your sword innuendos."

"I need to get some new material."

"Yeah." Bradley stifled a yawn, and realised just how tired he was. But that was for the best. The whole team knew he'd be exhausted after today. They wouldn't be expecting anything. Their guards would be down. And as for the human soldiers… well, they were used to his late-night wanderings. They knew how much he loved to look up at the stars. They wouldn't question him, and the security locks on the doors would prove no problem. By the time anyone realised he was gone, he would be miles away. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night. I'm absolutely exhausted from training today."

"Good idea. Looks like our illustrious leader is one step ahead of you." Wade shot a wry glance at the still-snoring Victor.

"Guess I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow."

"Yeah. Unless…"

"Unless?" Bradley prompted.

Wade gave him a grim smile. "Unless tonight's the night when you find me knocking on your door." He used his finger to draw a line across his throat, then grinned. "Sweet dreams!"

With a shiver, Bradley left the rec room and walked down the corridor towards the dorm. Sometimes, he wasn't sure just how much Wade _was_ joking. It would be just bloody typical that tonight Victor would decide to off him, and after all the preparation he'd done ready for his escape. It would be yet one more instance of him coming in last again.

He got to his room and, for the first time, wished there was a lock on his door. Not that it would keep any of Team X out, but it would definitely have made him feel a little… safer. All he could do was close the door behind him and make sure it was firmly shut. Then he reached under his bed and pulled out the backpack he'd stashed beneath the mattress. It was already full of clothes and some of the polystyrene-flavoured army rations, and he added a small pile of cash to it too. Then he went to his closet and took out a camera, a telescope and its tripod. They were some of his most beloved items, but tonight they would serve only as props, and once he was far enough away from the base, he would abandon them. Much as he was loathe to leave them, he knew he'd travel faster without them. Their sole use tonight would be to convince the guards at the perimeter gate that he was just going star-gazing again.

Everything was in place. Everything was ready. He'd worked out every little detail and, as Logan had taught him, tried to account for the factors which he _hadn't_ thought of yet. He was convinced he could get away. He _knew_ he could do it.

Where was Logan now? he wondered. And what would he say, if he could hear Bradley's thoughts, and see the plan for himself? He suspected his former Captain would be proud of how thoroughly he'd planned this out. At least, he _hoped_ his former Captain would be proud. Logan was one of the few men Bradley had ever respected. Perhaps, in a few months, or maybe a year, he'd track Logan down and surprise him with a visit. They could sit down with a beer and talk about how good it was to be free; of the violence, of the military, of Victor. Yes, that would be nice.

With nothing left to do except wait for the appointed time, he sat down on the edge of his bed and turned his thoughts to the stars.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Some hotel**

**Moscow**

**08:50 HRS**

Wade yawned and rolled out of bed, being quiet so as not to wake the sleeping woman beside him. Her dark blonde hair cascaded over the satin pillowcase beneath her head like a fountain of spun gold. Or something like that.

He dressed in the suit that had been provided for him, then glanced at himself in the full-length mirror. He looked almost respectable, in a suit. Of course, a suit was rubbish for concealing weapons in, so he'd had to leave his swords back home, which he wasn't thrilled about, but he'd managed to find himself a suitably shiny knife which was stashed in his inside pocket… just in case of emergencies.

Dressed for the day, he looked down at the sleeping woman. Natalia was her name, and she was pretty enough. A blonde, so not his usual type, but needs must when the devil drives. His orders were to infiltrate one of the less important branches of the Russian government, and the phrase 'covertly' had been reiterated by Stryker so many times that Wade suspected the man thought he didn't have a clue what it meant. But surely he hadn't forgotten about Wade's Mensa-like IQ, had he?

At any rate, upon arriving in Moscow five weeks ago, he'd been working hard at getting closer to the Minister for Agriculture. Natalia just happened to be the Minister's personal secretary, and she'd promised to let him meet her boss 'soon'. Wade's cover was that he had recently inherited an overseas fertiliser company from some distant dead relative or other—an absolutely _genius_ lie, if he did say so himself!—and was looking for a buyer within Russia.

Of course, plans changed.

He'd never planned to be in the military. It had sorta just… happened. Shiny things may have been involved. Money and women might have been mentioned. These things happened, and the military had been where he'd ended up. At first it was great, because he sat around on his ass being paid to do nothing but undergo a few medical tests every couple of weeks, to ensure his body was still in amazing shape. Which, of course, it was.

Then Logan and Victor had come along, which was slightly less than great because it meant having to actually do stuff, but the stuff he was required to do was mostly okay, and sometimes challenging. A few killings here and there, infiltrating stuff, hiking through jungles/mountains/forests/sewers/delete as appropriate. He got to travel to new places, which he liked, and test his skills in combat, which he _really_ liked, but most of all, he got to belong somewhere, which was pretty weird, but not as dire as he'd first thought.

That had changed when Logan had left. The younger brother of Victor Creed had always had a delicate stomach when it came to killing, and he'd never been happy with some of the orders he was asked to carry out. He tended to whine about them a lot, and sometimes wrestle with his conscience, and then brood, and possibly more whining, but eventually it had all gotten too much for him, and he'd quit. Just like that. It was such a snap, out-of-character decision—Logan was big on team-work and not abandoning people—that it had come as a complete surprise to Wade, as well as the others.

The journey since then could largely be described as 'downhill'. Oh, sure, at first it was all the same, more or less. Only, it wasn't. Victor grew angrier and angrier, and even more violent as the days went by, and Stryker did nothing about it. And as Victor descended into darkness, or whatever other metaphor was appropriate, the missions had gotten darker, too. There was very little that could keep Wade awake at night; Owls, the noisy bastards; Terrible nightmares of boat-fulls of supermodels drowning Titanic-style; The thought that French might one day become the sole official language of Canada. But the things he'd done under Stryker's orders… if they didn't keep him awake at night, they followed him into his dreams, and disturbed him there. Even a man's _head_ wasn't his own, these days!

He'd been a mercenary before. He'd done his share of dark deeds. But the things he was asked to do by the military, in service to his country (well, technically not _his_ country) were darker than any of those. The more time passed, the less Stryker seemed to care about collateral damage. Normally, Wade didn't care about it either, but the damage was getting _extensive_. Stryker would burn a whole village if it stood in his way. He would order a child shot to make its parents talk. And he turned a blind eye to everything Victor did. Looked away from the blood, turned away from the screams, and just let it happen.

Of course, plans changed.

Last night, as he'd been in the middle of burning the midnight oil with Natalia, he'd been thinking about things. Multi-tasking wasn't just for women. It was entirely possible to have a full-blown conversation with yourself inside your own head whilst a Russian hottie was riding you like a cowgirl. And he'd realised something; he couldn't stay. Team X had been slowly eroding away over the past twelve months. It had started with Logan's impromptu departure. Then had gone Dukes and Wade, retiring from active duty to live their dreams of helping impoverished black kids by feeding them burgers, or whatever. And then, barely three months ago, Bradley had scarpered.

Bradley! Wade could still scarcely believe it. Who'd've thought that the little fly-zapper had enough courage to rabbit like that? He'd gone in the middle of the night, whilst everyone else was asleep. The guards had seen him go out with his sky-watching equipment, but they'd thought nothing of it, because Bradley was a bit of a sci-fi nerd. When he hadn't shown up for breakfast, Victor had gone asking questions. He'd hurt a few people. Soldiers Wade had known from his first day at Bunker Five. And, for the first time, he and Zero had had to restrain Victor. They'd physically had to hold him down, and it had taken both of them, plus a couple of the uninjured soldiers, to do it.

There should have been a court-martial. But Stryker returned and remuneration was made to the injured soldiers, and then Wade, as the only member of Team X to speak fluent Russianese (of course) had been ordered out here for this under-cover mission. A few weeks away from the holder of his leash had given him some perspective. He'd come to realise that he didn't particularly like his job anymore. It was too dark, too bloody, even for him. He still considered himself to be in possession of a soul, tarnished and grimy as it was, and he didn't think he could afford to get it any darker.

Besides, Victor was a violent brute with few brains and little tact or skill, and Zero had never managed to get that stick out of his ass. Team X had been reduced to two people he hated. Not that he'd been BFFs with the others, but they, at least, were tolerable. Sometimes even entertaining. People he didn't mind hanging around and winning money off from time to time.

He'd left behind the life of a mercenary, choosing instead the stability of a steady job. Now he understood that stability wasn't all it was cracked up to be. In choosing stability, he'd signed away his freedom, and it was time to claim his freedom back. It was time to be a mercenary once again.

And perhaps submit his application to Mensa.

There was a suitcase, so he packed it. In went some clothes, some money, and Natalia's credit cards. She was still sound asleep, but he'd slipped enough sedatives into her drink the night before to ensure she'd be out for hours, yet. One could hardly set off for a new life… or rather, an old life… with a woman fawning at you and pouting and trying to convince you to stay.

He had everything he needed to survive, and he could get himself a bigger blade once he was away from Moscow. Carrying a sword down the city streets might get him a few looks, and right now, he wanted to avoid looks. So he simply left the room and went downstairs to the check-in desk.

"I would like to check out, please," he said (in Russianese, of course), and handed over a wad of cash. "The lady in my room requests the use of it until the end of the day. Oh, and you might wish to take a holiday."

"A holiday, Mr Dobrovsky?" asked the concierge. "I don't understand."

"In a few days, some men are going to come looking for me. You won't want to be here when they do."

"I… I understand, sir."

The man looked as if he might faint, but Wade considered it his good deed for the year. He left the hotel and hailed a cab, and one pulled up a few seconds later. He didn't bother looking back as he hopped inside and told the driver to take him to the nearest airport. By this time tomorrow he'd be in the Bahamas, sipping a Piña Colada through a straw and enjoying the beautiful… sights. He had seen his last of Stryker, and of Team X.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: East Park Hospital**

**New Jersey**

**14:15 HRS**

William Stryker stood in the cold mortuary, his breath fogging as he exhaled shakily. In front of him, on a cold metal medical table, a clean white blanket covered an unmoving body. He was no stranger to medical facilities, but he'd never realised before how quiet they were. The silence was pervasive, filled only with little noises; the ticking of the wall-clock as it counted idle seconds; the gentle hum of the refrigeration units as they kept their occupants chilled; the _tap tap tap_ of quiet footfalls as the coroner arrived.

"Cause of death was massive cranial bleeding and irreversible brain damage caused by a hand-drill," the faceless medic said, as easily as if he was reading a weather report. "You don't have to do this, Major Stryker. A neighbour already ID'd the body. It's not pretty."

"I'm a soldier. Ugly is my life."

"Very well."

The coroner stepped forward and pulled back the white blanket, revealing a crown of gentle brown curls which looked no different in death than in life. Then, Stryker's eyes travelled across to her face, and he felt his fingers dig into his palm, his fists trembling with the effort of showing nothing. Sarah's face was pale and scarlet-soaked, the right side of her temple a mess of blood and bone and brain matter. Stryker felt the bile rising in his stomach. To see death… to order it done, to be a witness to it for the good of his country, was one thing. To see the results of it inflicted on the woman he loved…

"I'm very sorry for your loss," the coroner added. "And I'm sorry to have to ask you this at such a difficult time, but did Sarah have a history of mental illness?"

Stryker shook his head. "Why?"

"Several of the women she was friends with from her book club reported to the officer who found her that she'd been complaining recently of hearing voices, of seeing things which couldn't possibly be real. Terrible things which left her living in constant fear."

_Damn it, Sarah,_ he thought. _Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me what was going on? I would have come home. I could have helped. I know you wanted to protect Jason, but it wasn't worth this price. Without you, there is no light in my world. Nothing left for me but to ensure this never happens to another family ever again._

"Major Stryker?" the coroner prompted.

"No. No history of mental illness."

The coroner wrote something down on his report. "The tox screen came back negative, so I'm certain this wasn't caused by anything your wife ate, drank or came into physical contact with. I hope the autopsy will provide me with an answer for you, but I have to tell you that the damage is… extensive. We may never know why your wife tried to drill into her own brain."

"Just do what you can," Stryker said, emotionless. He couldn't let himself feel, because the moment he acknowledged his feelings he knew he would lose it and break down. That was something he couldn't afford. Not now. He had to be stronger than ever before, now. He had to be unbreakable.

"I will, of course. I'm told that there was a witness to the incident… your son?" The coroner shook his head and _tsk_ed sadly. "That poor boy. What he must be going through, after everything he's seen. May God help him."

"Don't worry," Stryker said, the sickness in his stomach turning cold, like liquid ice. "I'll make sure he gets the help he needs." He stepped forward, touched his fingers to his lips, and then to the cold lips of his beloved. "Rest in peace, Sarah. And may all the angels of heaven watch over you."

He turned and left the morgue. On autopilot he returned to his car, started it up, and drove home. He barely saw the traffic lights along the way, didn't notice if turning cars had right of the road, paid no attention to his surroundings. Somehow, he made it home without causing an accident or being pulled over by the cops. The building that had once been a mockery of a family home now laughed at him openly, the creaky front gate scorning him, telling him, _this is what you get for not being here when she needed you._

He slammed the gate shut and it broke from its hinges, the creaking laugh dying on the wind. But no, that wouldn't do. He couldn't get angry, because once anger got inside, it left the door open for other things, such as sadness and guilt, feelings he could ill afford to feel. So, taking a deep breath, he calmed himself before opening the front door of the house, and he stepped inside the home he had been absent from so often.

The grandfather clock still ticked in the hallway, but it ticked for itself, now. Never again would Sarah stand in front of it, a small smile on her face as she remembered how it had watched over her as a child, sending her to sleep with its rhythmic tick-tock. There was a very faint smell of apple pie in the air; the last thing Sarah had ever made. She loved to bake, and apple pie was Jason's favourite. Stryker vowed he would never eat apple pie again.

He walked through the house, feeling the ghosts of the things she had touched plucking at his heart, every tiny thing within his home reminding him painfully of her. No matter how much he tried to ignore them, they wouldn't fade away and let him be. And when he reached the door to the cellar, and rested his hand upon the knob, he heard Sarah's voice plainly in his head as she sang her favourite poem, one she'd sung Jason to sleep to when he'd been but a babe.

_My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,_

_So it stood ninety years on the floor._

_It was taller by half than the old man himself,_

_Though it weighed not a pennyweight more._

_It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born_

_And was always his pleasure and pride._

_But it stopp'd, short, never to go again_

_When the old man died._

_._

_In watching its pendulum swing to and fro_

_Had he spent many years as a boy;_

_And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know_

_And to share both his grief and his joy._

_For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door_

_With a blooming and beautiful bride._

_But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,_

_When the old man died._

_._

_My grandfather said that of those he could hire,_

_Not a servant so faithful he found;_

_For it wasted no time, and had but one desire—_

_At the close of each week to be wound._

_And it kept in its place – not a frown upon its face,_

_And its hands never hung by its side._

_But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,_

_When the old man died._

_._

_It rang an alarm in the dead of the night—_

_An alarm that for years had been dumb;_

_And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight—_

_And his hour of departure had come._

_Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,_

_As we silently stood by his side,_

_But it stopp'd, short, never to go again,_

_When the old man died._

_._

_Ninety years without slumbering, tick tock, tick tock,_

_His life seconds numbering, tick tock, tick tock,_

_And it stopp'd, short, never to go again,_

_When the old man died._

He closed his eyes, trying to banish the voice, that hauntingly beautiful sound, from his ears. Turning the door knob, he stepped through and climbed down the stairs, guided by the light of the single bulb set into the ceiling. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he looked around and saw Jason sitting in a corner. The boy had obviously tried to work his way free from the restraints, but he'd never been the most physical of children; his hands were still bound behind his back, the ropes around his ankles were secure, and the gag was still in his mouth. His hair was messy, his face dirty from rolling around in the dust trying to free himself, eyes wide and panicked with fear of what was to come. A twelve year old boy was no match for military knots.

"William."

Goosebumps prickled his flesh, the hairs on his body rising at the voice of his dead wife. Turning, he saw her standing behind him, her face warm and alive, her hair a perfect cascade of shining loose curls, as if death had never touched her.

"William, please stop it," she said. "You're hurting Jason."

He felt a frown crease his brows, and as much as it pained him to do so, he turned his back on her. It didn't stop her pleading.

"Please, William. It's our fault. We never should have taken him away from Xavier. All Jason wanted to do was stay in school."

His hands curled into fists again, fingernails biting into his palms. The pain helped. It kept the anger and the tears at bay. Pain, he could handle. He was a soldier.

"He didn't mean for this to happen, William. You have to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you."

Now he ignored the illusion of his wife, and stepped forward towards his son. Jason shrank back, but Stryker reached out and pulled the gag out of the boy's mouth.

"Father, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Speak when you're spoken to, boy," he said, and casually back-handed him.

Jason went sprawling, his cheek turning red, and he whimpered like a frightened girl. Disgusting. But Stryker was under no illusion about whose fault this was. Jason might have forced his mother to witness the things that had driven her to suicide, but it was that professor, that Xavier, who had let Jason become this… this… monster. When it had been obvious that Xavier had no intention of trying to cure their son, he and Sarah had taken Jason home and planned to enrol him in a normal school. That's when the illusionary nightmares had started. Little things, at first; injuries taken where none had been caused, items moved or missing, the car gone from the drive. And when Stryker had been called back to work to handle Victor-related issues, Sarah had borne the brunt of Jason's anger. If only Stryker had known how bad it would be, he never would have left his wife alone with the monster that had become his son.

"I thought you were different to the others," he said, crouching down before Jason, who turned his face away. "I thought you were better than them, because you're my son. But you're no different. In fact, you're worse. You're just a boy, and you drove your own mother to madness and suicide. I've seen a lot of freaks, but you are by far the worst." He stood up, looked down at the cowering child, and barely even recognised him as his son anymore. "I was wrong to think that mutants can be cured. It's obvious to me now that there can be no cure for monsters like you, Jason. Mutants can't be cured, only controlled, neutered like dogs."

"Please, father, I want to be cured," Jason said. He was crying now. He'd realised that his illusion of Sarah wasn't working.

"No, you don't," Stryker said in disgust. "You just want to save your own hide. Just like the rest of them. Well, don't worry, son. I'm going to fix you. Make you safe. And when I'm done with you, you'll never be able to hurt another person again."

He turned and left, and Jason cried out.

"No, father, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll do anything you want! Please, let me try again!"

Stryker ignored the pleas. It wasn't his son that he heard, begging for help, but a monster trying to save itself from the fate it deserved. The fate they _all_ deserved. He knew, now, what it came down to. _Control or kill._ And he knew just the scientists to help him with his new, personal mission.

* * *

_Wade's Note: Author asks me to tell you that the Grandfather Clock poem is an old song (1876, so not quite as old as Logan) by American composer/songwriter Henry C. Work, and not an original concoction. Now that's out of the way – pretty cool chapter, huh? My favourite part was the bit with me in it. So, next chapter is going to be the __**very last chapter**__ about your favourite black-ops super-power mutant team! What does that mean? Mostly that I get to ditch the other losers and have my very own story, yaaay! But you should still read the next chapter for closure or whatever. See you next week, amigos!_


	10. All Who Wander

No I in Team

* * *

"_Today, as always, men fall into two groups: slaves and free men. Whoever does not have two-thirds of his day for himself, is a slave, whatever he may be: a statesman, a businessman, an official, or a scholar." —Friedrich Nietzsche._

* * *

_10. All Who Wander_

**Location: Black Cloud Creek**

**British Columbia, Canada**

**21:35 HRS**

Snow started to fall; small, early November flakes that danced down from the sky and clung to the ground. James, standing in the flurry outside the noisy bar, shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket to warm his fingers, and sniffed the air. It smelt heavy and cold, and he knew that winter had just arrived.

The bar called to him, light spilling out from the cracks between the wooden boards of the walls, the scent of alcohol lingering in the cold air. It wasn't a posh bar, not the sort you'd find in a city, inhabited by yuppies. It was a country bar that had been set up in a dingy old barn as a place where loggers, miners and labourers could go after a hard day's work.

He'd avoided the place until now, keeping to himself for the past three months, working his new logging job but purposely not getting involved in case the shadows of his past—namely, Victor—came back to haunt him. Now, winter was setting in, and the thought of spending all his spare time alone in his little log cabin was almost unbearable. Though he didn't fear solitude, he wasn't accustomed to it. He'd never truly been alone before. Victor had been a near-constant in his life, and from time to time there had been women to fill the gaps, and more recently, Team X.

He missed the banter. He missed Wraith's humour, and Bradley's introspective questions, and Zero's frosty glares, and Dukes' deadpan comments, and Victor's little snarks, and God help him, he even missed Wade's mind-numbing chatter. A little. But it was time to lay the shadows of his past to rest. It was time to stop existing, and start living.

Now that his mind was made up, he found it easy to step forward, towards those yellow shafts of light that sliced the ground so cleanly and warmly. As he approached the door, the sound of voices filtered into his ears, little snippets of conversations jumping out at him before being swallowed by the hubbub. He reached out and pushed open the door, and the volume decreased as men and women stopped to glance at the stranger. They seemed content that he was no threat, and returned to their merry-making.

"Hey, Logan, over here!"

He recognised the voice which called out to him. A guy he worked with named Nell, so called because he hated his real name—Nelson—and a fellow lumberjack. Nell drove the skidder that pulled felled trees away from the forest to the landing, and he was a decent, hardworking guy. Nell gestured him over, and Logan found him sitting with a group of the other loggers, enjoying what appeared to be their second round of beers.

"Well well, look what the cat dragged in," Nell grinned. "I was beginning to think you were one of those tee-totallers, the way you always ran off after work without sticking around to be invited for a beer with the boys."

"To be honest," James replied, "I wasn't too sure I was going to stay here. Never been a lumberjack before, and didn't know if I'd get the feel for it."

"You're a natural, Logan," said Dave, one of the sawyers. "Hard to believe you haven't done this before."

"Dave, the man didn't come here to talk about work," said Nell, and he clapped Logan on the shoulder. "What'll it be, buddy? You've got some catching up to do."

"I'll just have whatever you're drinking."

Nell went off to the bar, and the conversation turned back to its original topic. One of the guys was getting married and looking for post-marital advice from the more experienced men in the group. Logan listened, but said nothing. His experience of marriage wasn't bad, but it had often been bitter, and for some reason, the bitterness tended to taint the happier memories, blurring them almost beyond recognition.

Because of his enhanced constitution—what the docs at Bunker Five had called his healing factor—he rarely ever got drunk, and he quickly caught up with his workmates. The alcohol tasted a little bitter, but it wasn't half bad, and the more he drank, the better it seemed to taste. After four rounds he was just starting to feel a nice, warming buzz, when a prickling feeling along the back of his neck told him he was being watched.

He scanned the room, eyes passing over groups of people as they sat or stood chatting to each other, until he noticed a woman sitting on her own at a small table to the side of the bar. Her eyes, which had been roaming over his body, looked away when she noticed he'd caught on to her.

"Who's that?" he asked Nell and Dave.

"A new teacher at the local school," Nell replied. "Her name's Kayla. She got here about a month ago. Comes in from time to time to have a drink or too, but I never see her sittin' with anyone Why, you thinking of helpin' her keep warm at nights?" The skidder grinned again.

"No," he said, a little more curtly than he'd intended. He wasn't sure he was ready for women, yet. He wanted to ease himself back into civilian life by taking baby-steps. First had been the cabin, and then the job, and now a few beers with his work buddies. Perhaps in a few months he'd be ready to make new friends, but for now he wanted to take it all slow. Too many times in the past he had rushed in and made mistakes. This time would be different.

"Hey, no offence, pal," said Nell, holding up his hands.

"Sorry," he said, because he knew he'd been wrong in snapping at Nell. Guys talked, almost as much as women, and he knew Nell didn't mean anything by it. "Why don't I go buy the next round? Figure it's my turn by now."

There was a cheer from the group, and James made his way to the bar on legs which were still mostly steady. "Six beers," he said to the barman. Then, as an afterthought, "and three packets of chips."

As the barman pulled the drinks, James took a cigar from his pocket, lit up, and listened to a few snippets of conversations that were happening around the room.

"…_late for dinner again, and stopped out most of last night. I don't know what I'm going to do with him…"_

"…_can't believe it's snowing already. Seems like only yesterday we were baking in the sunshine. Where did summer go?"_

"…_had an offer of a job over in Alberta, two years at least, but not sure the wife and kids will want to go…"_

"…_tried to change it for my spare tyre, but that was flat too…"_

Small-town problems, from small-town people. James smiled. He'd missed this. In places like Black Cloud Creek, even big problems were pleasantly mundane. It was nice to be able to sit and relax and not have to worry about people potentially tearing each other apart with mutant powers, or be concerned with not drinking because tomorrow was a training day. Now, there would be no more training days, no waking up long before the crack of dawn to put a team through its paces, and though he did miss the people he'd come to, mostly, think of as friends, he found himself feeling surprisingly… free. A weight that had been sitting on his shoulders since he'd crossed the I's and dotted the T's on a US government contract had finally been lifted.

"I'll have a beer, please."

James glanced to his side at the sultry feminine voice, and saw the woman who'd been watching him earlier standing just a pace or two away at the bar. When she noticed him looking, she gave him a friendly smile, which had just a hint of 'coy' in it.

"Hey," she said. "I haven't seen you around here before. New in town?"

"No," he replied, and mentally hurried the barman along. Women just complicated things _far_ too much. "I've been here three months or so, but this is the first time I've visited the bar."

"Took you a while to find it," she pointed out. One eyebrow lifted slightly as she posed the non-question. "I would have thought the bar is the first place anyone would come, in a little place like this. It's not like there's much else to do."

"Well, I've had a few things to work out in my head. Didn't feel much like being social."

"And now?"

"I'm getting there," he replied.

The barman finally brought the last beer, and dropped three bags of chips down on the counter, but the woman wasn't going to let him get away so easily.

"I'm Kayla, by the way," she said, offering her hand. Her eyes invited him to take it. "Kayla Silverfox."

"James Howlett," he replied, shaking her hand, trying not to squeeze too hard, as was his habit. "But everyone calls me Logan."

"Oh? Why's that."

"Because I tell them to."

She smiled, and it lit up her sun-kissed face. Then she picked up her own beer and turned, glancing at him over her shoulder.

"Maybe I'll see you in here again, Logan."

"Yeah, maybe."

While she sauntered back to her own table, he turned and took a long draught of one of the beers. _Women_. They were damn complicated things. But perhaps a little complication wouldn't go amiss. It might help to keep him on his toes. Give him something to think about during the long Canadian winter nights.

_To complications,_ he thought, toasting himself as he took another swig of the beer. _And my new life._

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Bunker Five**

**20:35 HRS**

With a feral snarl of anger, Victor slammed the door of Stryker's office, taking momentary pleasure in the way that the whole frame trembled with the force of the blow. Stryker's answer today had been the same as the last three times; _Yes, Victor, of course we can graft adamantium to your bones. But we're still trying to refine it, to remove the impurities. And after that we must test it, to ensure the procedure actually works. You're too valuable to be risked on an untested procedure._

He growled under his breath as he made his way back to the rec room. At this hour of the day it was empty. Zero, the last remaining member of Team X other than himself, was out on a mission for Stryker. Victor didn't know the particulars, and he didn't care for them. He had little love for Zero, and he knew the feeling was mutual. But that didn't matter. Adamantium bones were worth putting up with Zero's haughty, condescending sneers for. And once the adamantium was finally bonded to his bones, the first thing he'd do would be to wipe those sneers off Zero's face.

Throwing open the door to the rec room, he tossed the unopened dossier down on the table and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Had he wished, he could have crushed the can, beer and all, in his powerful grip, but for the moment he set aside his desire for destruction and settled instead on opening the can and drinking the contents in half a dozen huge gulps. Only once it was empty did he crush the can and toss it aside, not caring if it landed in the bin.

He hated it here. When he'd first arrived, it had seemed a place of endless possibilities. Now, there was only one thing he wanted, and Stryker was telling him he had to be _patient_ to get it. Patience was not one of Victor's strengths. He was used to getting his own way, and pretty damn fast.

Besides, without Jimmy, this facility was just another place to rest his head at night. He'd always thought that it would be him and Jimmy against the world, but his younger brother could be a selfish bastard at times. Victor had been just fifteen years old when Jimmy had killed their father. It was the freedom Victor had been longing for since the old drunk had first picked up his leather belt and lashed his son for 'bad behaviour.' As if that bastard was any better, sleeping with another man's wife, beating his boy black and blue, drowning himself in cheap bourbon during the working hours. A fine example for Victor to learn from.

He'd thought that Thomas Logan's death would be the end of it. The start of a new life. The night Jimmy had killed the old sot, Victor knew that he'd finally found his family. Jimmy was his brother, his own flesh and blood. And Victor, as the older of the two, had considered it his responsibility to keep his brother safe. When Jimmy, aching and feverish from his recent change, had been too sick to run anymore, Victor had carried him. When Jimmy had complained of tiredness and nausea, Victor had found a cave for him to lie safely inside. And when the militia and their tracking hounds had gotten too close to the cave, Victor had lured them away, running for almost two days, doubling back on his tracks, leaving false scent-trails, anything he could think of to throw the dogs off his brother's trail.

It hadn't stopped there, either. The boys had needed to eat, and Victor had been the one to provide. Whilst Jimmy watched, safely hidden up a tree, Victor had snuck into a farmstead's chicken coup and snapped the necks of the birds. The brothers had eaten well for days, the juicy chicken meat spitted over the fire just like Victor had seen the fur-trappers do. And when Jimmy needed new shoes, to replace his worn old boots, Victor had been the one to break into a farmhouse and steal clothes from the family within. He'd come very close to being shot, that time, not knowing back then that bullets would do little more than tickle him.

Of course, Jimmy didn't remember those things, just as he didn't remember the mob that had almost caught the pair of them and threatened to hang them for stealing from the general store. Just as he didn't remember how Victor had lain in wait for a passing soldier, pouncing on the man and knocking him from his fine horse, when Jimmy's feet were too sore and blistered to walk anymore. That horse had carried them for miles, and then been sold for a decent amount five towns over. The money from that sale had seen them kitted out in new clothes and with a bag of bread and cheese to keep their bellies full for a week.

No. All Jimmy remembered was the blood. The chicken feathers around Victor's mouth. The crimson red liquid beneath Victor's fingernails after he'd jumped the soldier. The scarlet stains on his shirt after his was forced to defend himself and his brother from a man who tried to rob them of their food.

Victor had done what he'd needed to do to survive. He'd accepted the bloodshed, welcomed it even, so that his brother didn't have to. And was Jimmy ever grateful for that sacrifice? Of course not. What had Jimmy done, in return? He'd gone off and found himself a wife. Some pretty woman to warm his bed, but who had ultimately ended up hating him and cursing his youthfulness. During the Klondike gold-rush, the brothers could have been made rich men, but Jimmy was too soft to give up his house and his wife. After each and every bar brawl, Jimmy swore it would be the last, that he'd never drink again, never let his temper get the better of him again. Just as how after each and every war he swore he would fight no more. That this was the last time he would be a soldier, fighting somebody else's battle.

But that was Jimmy all over. He went in circles, and sometimes he even forgot the cycles which had come before, trapped in some perpetual loop of trying to escape the violence but ultimately being drawn back to it like a moth to a flame. Ten years. Twenty. Thirty, tops, and Jimmy would forget all about Nigeria, about Team X and the black-skinned corpses which had littered the ground of that tiny, unimportant village. Victor would show up on his doorstep, tempt him with some offer, and Jimmy would come running back, just like he always did. You can't run from your family forever. He knew that better than most.

In a slightly better mood now that he knew he'd only have to wait a couple of decades to get his brother back again, he took another beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. The dossier—the word 'classified' stamped over its front in big red letters—was waiting for him, begging to be opened and read. So Victor, after drinking half his second can, opened the folder and read the file inside.

_Target: Remy Etienne LeBeau_

_Current location: Nashville, Tennessee_

_Occupation: Thief & Card Shark_

_Mutant Power: Ability to control potential and kinetic energy. The subject is skilled at charging small items to be used as impromptu incendiary devices, and has above average skills in hand-to-hand combat. Known to law enforcement agencies across several states, nobody would ask questions if he were to go missing._

Victor smiled. This sounded like a challenge, and he was always up for a challenge. Something to help take his mind off his ungrateful little brother… at least until their paths crossed again. Just as they always did.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Fordham Plaza**

**The Bronx, NYC**

**11:50 HRS**

The ladder wobbled, and John Wraith froze in mid-stroke. He wasn't all that big on heights, which most people found strange or amusing—sometimes both—but there was no other way to paint the yellow-and-brown coloured ceiling of the dive Dukes had bought to turn into his new restaurant. The place had potential, but it needed a _lot_ of work. Almost as much work as the place he'd bought to make into a boxing gym. And since Dukes had helped him haul in the ring, and all the bags and pads and done most of the heavy work and half of the manual labour, John reckoned it was only fair he help Dukes out with the restaurant.

Perhaps there'd even be some free burgers in it.

"Y'need a hand?" he called.

Dukes, who was huffing and groaning as he hauled an industrial-sized dishwasher through the back door, glanced over and shook his head. "Nah, I got it."

"Alright. But any time you want me to come down from this ladder and help you out, just yell."

Damned ladder. It was trying to kill him. Every time he bent down to dip his brush into the tray of paint, it wobbled. And when he reached up to spread the paint across the ceiling, to conceal some of the suspicious stains, it creaked and groaned threateningly. Not that he would hit the floor, of course; he could always teleport himself upright and ground-side before that happened. He just didn't like the sensation of falling. Brought back too many memories of that day on the bridge when three of his childhood friends had died.

Because of that day, parachuting was a nightmare for him. Or at least, it had been. He didn't have to do that anymore. No, you'd never catch John Wraith airborne again. Not unless he had the solid floor of an airplane beneath his feet, at least. Airplanes were fine. Helicopters were fine. It was just open air he had a problem with, and it extended to depths, as well as heights.

"There," Dukes said, sounding satisfied. "Dishwasher in place. Now I just gotta get a plumber to come and pipe it in."

"I can hook you up with a guy," John offered.

"Thanks. You wanna take a break, now?"

"Music to my ears." He put down the brush and teleported down to the floor, taking the first opportunity he'd had all day to stand up properly without fear of falling off something. He knuckled his back for a moment, trying to work some of the tension out of muscles that had been ready to twitch and teleport for hours. God, he hated ladders.

From the huge fridge which had been installed yesterday, Dukes pulled out two cans of beer, and tossed one of them to John.

"Cheers," he said, opening the can and taking a long drink of the cold amber nectar. As it cooled his throat, he looked around for somewhere to sit, and spied the serving counter.

"Don't even think about it," Dukes warned. "No sitting on my counter whilst you're all covered in paint. You'll ruin it."

John rolled his eyes, and settled for leaning back against one of the unpainted walls. "Look at us," he said, raising his can. "Beer before lunch. Wonder what Logan would say if he were here."

Dukes shrugged. He'd never been a big fan of the Captain. Oh, he hadn't hated him, as Zero had, but he'd always been… cool, with Logan. Not cold, or frosty, just cool. "Guy gave me the creeps," the big man admitted. "Living all that time. It isn't right."

"Some people might say that being able to punch through walls with your bare fists, or being able to teleport, ain't right," John pointed out. "Besides, Victor was just as immortal."

"And that guy gave me a double helping of the creeps with a side of fries. Do you think he's still with Team X, now that Logan's gone?"

John snorted. "Man, that team will have fallen apart without us. You wanna know where I think everyone is, now?" Dukes nodded, and John began tallying up on his fingers. "Logan will be off somewhere doing charity work, you know, building homes for people in Ecuador or something, to try and make up for all the crap he had to do under Stryker's command. Victor will be off fighting in some war, tearing people's heads off, or working as a bodyguard for someone rich and stupid. Wade, he'll be travelling 'round the far east, challenging anybody with a knife to a duel to the death, and possibly fleeing from angry fathers. And Bradley… well, I bet he's gone back to school, studying something like astronomy. In ten years we'll see him on TV, talking about space and stuff, finding new stars and naming them after us. He has the brains to go far, that kid, and something he loves to give him the passion to see it through."

"I wonder if he'll come try my burgers," Dukes mused. "Hey, if he names a star after me, does that mean I have to name a burger after him?"

"At _least_. It's only fair, man." He glanced at the big man, and little gears began ticking inside his head. "Speaking of fair, maybe we could come to some sort of business arrangement."

"What sort of arrangement?"

"How about I big-up your diner to all my boys and their families, encourage 'em to come and patronise this place a couple of times a week, and you give them a bit of a discount? Y'know, help out some of the low-income kids, do your bit for the community, etc?"

Dukes frowned as the idea rolled around his mind. "And what do I get out of it?"

"Word-of-mouth advertising, my friend. Word spreads that this is a great place to eat for a decent price." He looked around, at the walls which were currently yellow-and-brown-stain coloured, but would one day be clean. A fresh canvas. "Of course, I'll probably need you to put a couple of posters up, maybe famous boxers, and my gym's name underneath 'em. Just to point people in my direction."

"I suppose I could manage that," Dukes relented at last.

"Great. We're going to make it big, Dukes, I can just feel it," he said, a smile spreading across his face of its own volition. He had a good feeling about all of this. Like he'd really be helping people, and making a difference, and hopefully getting famous in the process. "I'm gonna train up a boxing champ, and people will be flocking for miles to try your Bradley Burgers."

"That name is so lame," Dukes scoffed.

"Alright, then use Bradley's codename; Bolt. Spicy Bolt Burgers, guaranteed to make your spine tingle."

"Hmm. I think I can work with that." Dukes drank the last of his beer, crushed the can as easily as any other man might crumple a piece of paper, and tossed it aside. "But we've got a lot of work to do first."

"I know, I know," John sighed. "Finish the painting." He downed his drink, threw his empty can down next to Dukes', and teleported back to the wobbly ladder. He'd have the ceiling finished by the end of the day, and the walls by the end of the week. All of the stains, even the interesting-shaped ones, would soon be gone, erased by a coat of glossy white. And as he worked, he tried to imprint his less happier memories onto those stains, so that they, too, could be covered over forever.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Waukegan, Illinois**

**20:45 HRS**

Carmine's Carnival was many things. It had started out as a circus, many decades ago, but then the elephants had gotten too expensive to keep, the big cats had been confiscated when one of the leopards managed to maul a child through the bars of its cage, and the monkey-trainer had died leaving no heir to continue the time-honoured tradition of teaching monkeys to dance the conga whilst wearing ridiculous outfits. There were still some animals left; the performing dogs were always popular with the kids, and the stage magician had a menagerie of his own, but animals just didn't draw the crowds like they used to.

To make up for the lack of animals, the circus owners had bought a few mobile fairground rides, begun hiring freakshows, and changed its name from Circus to Carnival. Now there was something for all the family. The little kids got to enjoy the performing dogs and the vomit-inducing merry-go-rounds and whirly-gigs, the older kids and teenagers mostly spent their time playing the near impossible to win games which afforded prizes for those lucky enough to make a score, and the adults had any number of freaks to gawk at, though the kids did just as much gawking as their parents.

There was the bearded lady, though it was a genuine medical condition she suffered from. Similarly, the contortionist, who could squeeze herself into the smallest of boxes, was simply double-jointed in each of her limbs. The strong-man was merely a guy who'd worked out since he was three years old and survived almost entirely on protein since then, and the dwarfs were, well, dwarfs. Dwarfism had been around since forever. Really, there wasn't anything all that freakish about it. The same probably couldn't be said for the ventriloquist and his freaky dummy, however.

_In fact,_ thought Chris Bradley, as he sat inside his little booth, watching the world pass him by, _there's really only one freak here—ventriloquist dummy notwithstanding—and that's me._

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd applied for jobs as an electrician, but pretty much everybody who was hiring wanted to see qualifications, and those who didn't want qualifications didn't pay enough for him to buy peanuts, much less survive on. Then he'd tried being a handy-man, but discovered he wasn't really all that handy. He'd been sleeping rough outside of Des Moines, Iowa, when the Carnival had rolled into town and pitched its tents in the open fields outside the city. Because he was small, and military-trained, he'd managed to sneak in without paying and gotten a good look around. Then, he'd had a thought.

_I can do this._

He'd impressed Chuck, the self-styled ringmaster—even though there was no longer a ring—with a few simple electricity manipulation tricks, and asked if he could join up. He'd also promised to fix any of the Carnival's electrical faults whenever they occurred. Chuck had accepted that proposal easily enough. Bradley didn't know if Chuck knew that he was a mutant, or whether he merely suspected, or even cared.

It wasn't a grand life that Bradley lived now, but it was a life, and it was his. Here, he had friends. Matilda, the bearded lady, cooked for him once a week, and in return he put some extra juice into the generator which powered her trailer so that she could have a few extra hours of television. Whenever the Carnival pulled into a new town, he went out with Gino, the strongman, for a tour of the local bars, which always helped to drum up interest because Gino was huge and drew a crowd wherever he went—sometimes they even followed him from bar to bar—and because Bradley had started to learn how to juggle, he was usually able to impress the local drinkers by juggling two or three lightbulbs, making them light up whenever they were in the air, and go dim when they touched his hands. The kids liked that one, too.

Here, he had his own little booth, where he performed his juggling trick whenever there were enough people nearby, and offered the chance for people to win prizes by turning off one of his bulbs. Nobody ever won, of course, and though some people did grow frustrated, Gino was always close by to make sure nobody did anything about their frustration. And since Gino was bigger even than Fred Dukes, disgruntled locals were never willing to cross him.

The booth wasn't the only thing he had. He also owned a small trailer; nothing posh, but it was _his_. He considered it his haven, the place where he could go to be surrounded by the things that he loved; an electronic train set that he could take apart and put back together with his eyes closed; a robot that walked, barely, at his mental command; lightbulbs in myriad colours and shapes and sizes, providing him with an aurora-esque light-show whenever the mood took him. He'd even managed to save up enough to buy himself a telescope, so that when the nights were clear he could climb up onto the roof of his trailer and look out at the distant stars.

It was a quiet night, tonight. Not many people glanced over to Bradley, in his little booth, so he was free to people-watch, which was one of his favourite things to do, when he wasn't performing. Right now he could see a family of four, typical mother, father, son and daughter set-up, and he guessed that she was a housewife and he was a dentist; the entire family had nice teeth. And when they disappeared into the Fun House, a name which was very much false advertising, he spied a young couple at one of the other booths, trying to hit targets with a water pistol. They were both crap shots; wouldn't have lasted more than twenty seconds in a firefight, either of them. But they were laughing, and looked to be having fun… perhaps he was being overly critical. It wasn't as if most people _needed_ to last twenty seconds in a firefight, after all.

He looked at his watch, which, of course, always kept perfect time, and saw that the hour was getting late. Almost ten-thirty, which meant that in another half-hour, Chuck would start closing up and politely ask his patrons to leave. Nobody would miss Bradley, between now and then – he'd had only six customers all night. So, deciding that because tonight was a special occasion, he closed up his booth and returned to his trailer. Inside, he pulled a bottle of champagne from his fridge, grabbed seven plastic cups, and then stepped outside to where the ladder led up to the roof of the trailer.

Tonight, he didn't bring his telescope with him, despite the fact that it was a clear sky and perfect for star-gazing. Instead, he cracked open the champagne bottle—he'd had to save for two weeks to afford the stuff—and set the plastic cups out in a circle, pouring half a glass of bubbly into each one.

"Well, guys," he said, "it's been one year. Twelve months since I walked out of Bunker Five and left my old life behind me. A year since I saw some of you, and longer for others. I have no idea what any of you are doing now, but I hope wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, you're happy. Here's to us."

He picked up one of the glasses and took a long sip, enjoying the sensation of cold bubbles running over his tongue. And when he was done with his glass, he picked up one of the others, because it would be rude to let their drinks go to waste. He'd even poured one for Victor, because he'd felt it wasn't fair to leave any member of Team X out, even if said member _was_ a dangerous, violent killer who'd scared the life out of Bradley.

The alcohol began to relax him, and he lay down on his back, looking up at the stars twinkling in the sky. Were any of the others looking at these stars, too, wondering what had become of their teammates? It was a nice thought. A nice thought and a nice night. And because it was a special occasion, he opened his mind up to the barrage of electronic signals and waves which flooded the air, invisible to all but him. Telephone conversations passed through his mind, along with radio stations playing all different kinds of music, and communications to and from satellites in orbit. He closed his mind and let it all just run through his his brain. He didn't hear any familiar voices, and he wasn't expecting to either, but it was nice just to feel… connected. When he was listening to all this, he wasn't alone. Merely a small part of a larger web of information.

And that was a nice feeling.

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Estany de Banyoles**

**Catalonia, España**

**13:00 HRS**

The best thing about being a mercenary, was that you got to pick your own working hours. You didn't have to get up at ridiculous-o'clock in the morning to run laps or siege a building, unless you wanted to, of course. You didn't have to spend an ungodly amount of time cleaning a gun you didn't care about, or firing said weapon at an immobile target, just to prove that you could hit what you aimed for. And you didn't have to kill any funny little bald men wearing dresses, which was probably a good thing as far as karma was concerned.

The past few months had been a learning curve. Or a re-learning curve, at least. One didn't go from soldier to mercenary any easier than one went from mercenary to soldier in the first place. Wade had to remind himself constantly that he wasn't under orders anymore, that he didn't have to kill, or hold back from killing, at anybody's command other than his own. Each day didn't have to be meticulously planned out, and each job didn't need three guys to be his back-up just in case he slipped up.

There were, of course, some things he missed. Being fed steak twice a day, for instance, and having somebody predictable to play poker with. But there were other things he _definitely_ didn't miss. For one, the clothing. He'd always heard that women loved a man in uniform, and granted, the fatigues had been comfortable, but they were so _bland_, and the problem with women throwing themselves at a man in uniform, was that _all_ women threw themselves at a man in uniform. Even the ones who weren't particularly attractive and he would rather have avoided entirely.

Another thing he didn't miss was the ridiculous rules, such as 'no drinking until after dark.' One of Stryker's rules that Logan had been forced to enforce. It was a stupid rule. Sometimes, the daylight hours were the _best_ times to drink. Take today, for example. Here he was, his first holiday away from merc work in a year, sitting in a deck chair in a secluded spot beside Lake Banyoles, sipping a mojito. You couldn't do that at night, because you just wouldn't get a tan _at all_, and mojito was more of a refreshing sunshine drink than a sit-alone-in-a-dark-room-being-gloomy-and-moping kind of drink.

From time to time, his thoughts had strayed towards his former teammates, but mostly he was too busy rebuilding his own life to speculate about what everybody else was getting up to. He'd been out of the game for too long; some people had forgotten his name. Some people didn't even _know_ his name! So he'd had to remind a few old acquaintances he was still alive, and introduce himself to a few _new_ acquaintances, because it just wouldn't do to have people in the mercenary line of work who _didn't_ know the name Wade Wilson.

After the (re)introduction period, he'd looked up some of his old contacts and put out feelers, to find out if there were any jobs he could take to ease him back into things. And by 'put out feelers', he meant he'd threatened people with his shiny new katanas until they either talked or bled. The ones who remembered him most fondly chose to talk. One or two had opted to bleed. But overall, it balanced out. He'd found himself a nice easy job to start off with; a bounty collection. Some jerk who'd crossed someone important in a place called Liechtenstein, wherever the hell _that_ was.

Of course, now he knew where it was. And since then, he'd done over a dozen jobs, most of them successful. His one minor slip had seen him shot in the leg, but he _really_ hadn't been expecting a twelve year old girl to be packing heat. How was he to have known that in Switzerland, _everybody_ had guns? It was like America, only without the fast food and gaudy neon signs. Which was a shame, because he _liked_ gaudy neon signs.

His slip up had landed him in hospital for two weeks, but the Swiss made great doctors, and great chocolate, and he'd taken advantage of both whilst laid up in a hospital bed. After he'd recovered, he discovered some other merc had made good on the contract, so he'd taught the guy a lesson by carving his initials into the man's chest, and he was confident that said merc wouldn't go taking any more jobs that Wade had expressed an interest in.

He heard footsteps approach before he saw the shadows on the ground, and looked up from his deckchair into two familiar, and rather unwelcome, faces. Instead of panicking, he sipped his mojito calmly, and took off his sunglasses.

"Zee. Vicky. What brings you to Spain?"

As he spoke, his slipped his left hand down, his fingertips brushing over the hilt of one of his katanas. Zero spoke, probably because Victor was still trying to think of a witty comeback. Creed wasn't the fastest thinker in the world.

"You do, Wilson."

"How'd you find me?" He'd been _very_ careful about covering his tracks. Nobody even knew he was on vacation here, unless… _Jefferson!_ That dirty snitch. If he'd talked, he'd pay for it. Unless he'd already paid for it, in which case, it didn't particularly matter.

"The government likes to keep tabs on all of its investments."

"Former investments, you mean?"

"Well," said Zero, "that's just it. Stryker wants to talk to you. He has an offer that he thinks you'll like."

"He knows where I am. If it's that good an offer, tell him to come himself, instead of sending his lap-dogs"

Zero sighed, but it was more a sigh of impatience than of regret. "That's not how it works. Now, I'd ask if you're going to come quietly, but… well… it's you."

Wade put down his mojito as his left hand closed around his sword, and he picked up his second sword as he slid from the chair and into a relaxed ready-stance. _Never leave home without your weapons. _His own personal motto. Zero's hand was on his gun holster, but Wade wasn't concerned; Zero was good, but he was better. And as for Victor… well, it was time to find out how many body parts you could lop off Creed before he finally died.

He gripped his swords more tightly and took a step back, which prompted Victor to move forwards, then he smiled.

"Should we dance?"

o - o - o - o - o

**Location: Three Mile Island**

**Pennsylvania**

**15:00 HRS**

Stryker looked down at the cold metal table. The man who lay strapped down upon it was pale and still, his face sporting painful black and purple bruises. Other than that which was sub-dermal, there was very little bleeding, which was a surprise. Victor _liked_ blood.

He heard the lab door open, and two pairs of feet approached, joining him in his assessment of what had been dubbed _Weapon XI_. Eleven, because the first nine had been failures, and the tenth had not yet been created. Weapon X would be a trial run, to ensure the bonding process would work. But that would come later.

"Is this him?" one of the newcomers asked, as he examined the man on the table. Dressed in a long white lab-coat, Doctor Killbrew was fairly new to the program, but he was claimed to be the best at what he did.

"That's right," Stryker replied.

Killbrew glanced at Weapon XI's face, then at the X-Ray slides suspended in front of the light machine. "My god, what did you do to him?"

Agent Zero answered. He and Victor were standing at the foot of the table, watching over their catch as a precautionary measure.

"He declined our offer to come quietly, so Victor had to soften him up a little before I could tranq him."

Victor smiled, and cracked his knuckles loudly. He was growing more and more violent by the day, but he was a useful tool and he'd proven surprisingly loyal… for the right price. Quite the opposite of his brother, who was one of the few men Stryker had known who couldn't be bought for _any_ price.

"Soften him up?" Killbrew asked. "Dislocated jaw, broken cheekbone, three fractured ribs and extensive bruising."

"Zero, Victor, you're dismissed for now," Stryker said. They'd done well to capture their prey alive; Killbrew was being unnecessarily harsh in his judgements. But then, he wasn't used to dealing with mutants on a daily basis.

Both remaining members of Team X left the room. Before Stryker could open his mouth, Killbrew spoke again.

"Colonel, the subject is heavily sedated and suffering from multiple bone fractures. Is it really necessary to keep him strapped down, too?"

"I've learnt that it's best to err on the side of caution, where mutants are concerned," he replied coldly. He hoped Killbrew wasn't going to turn out to be one of those bleeding-heart liberals. "And yes, anybody who needs to be put down by _Victor Creed_ should be kept sedated, bound, and secured in a containment cell at all times."

"Hmph. If you insist."

"Trust me, Doctor, you won't want to be around if Wade Wilson ever breaks free. Now, why don't you tell me how you're going to proceed?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Killbrew settled into the 'patient lecturer mode' that all scientists possessed, and Stryker tried to look interested in what the man said. In truth, he couldn't care less what Killbrew did to Wilson, as long as Weapon XI was a success. There had been too many failures in the Weapon X program, or so his superiors in Washington felt. They hadn't been pleased at all when Team X had been almost entirely disbanded. "The upgrades to the subject will be made incrementally, by inserting the mutated base-code from various mutants into the genetic sequence of Weapon XI's own stem cells.

"This process will involve two steps. The first step will be to effectively neutralise the subject's immune system, using chemical suppressants, to prevent immune cells from attacking the stem cells when we return them to the body. Once that's been done, stage two involves injecting the altered stem cells directly into Weapon XI's bone marrow. We'll have to drill into the iliac crest, both to initially harvest the stem cells, and later re-introduce them. To ensure swift uptake of the new genetic coding, we will subject Weapon XI to extreme physical stress… most likely blunt-force trauma. Or we may just irradiate his body, and see which method works best. Each new power we imbue him with will have to be done separately, to decrease the chances of rejection."

"Very good. I look forward to seeing the preliminary results. But before we can even think about using him in the field, we have to find a way to control him." That's what this was all about. One mutant under his control, to help control all the other mutants. There was no mutant powerful enough to stand up against other mutants, and certainly no mutant who would be willing to surrender his free will and become an unquestioning weapon of the US government. So, Stryker was going to _make_ one. The perfect tool for controlling the rising mutant threat. "I doubt he'll be willing to volunteer his services, once we're through with him."

"Actually, I have an idea regarding that. As you know, I've been reviewing all of the Team X history files, and I'd like to make a suggestion. Actually, an improvement on one of Doctor Cornelius' ideas."

"I'm listening."

"Doctor Cornelius has suggested we implant Weapon XI with a computer processor, to control his actions. I believe the need for such cybernetics would be greatly reduced if we could somehow find a way of controlling him via genetics, specifically, a mutant power."

"Go on."

"I'm aware that one of your former team members, one Christopher Bradley, was able to manipulate electrical fields and even computers using his mutant ability." He waited for a nod of confirmation before continuing. "If we could introduce that particular ability to Weapon XI's genetic structure, we might find a way to tap into it, and control him by a similar means."

"Can that even be done?"

"I believe so. Weapon XI would still require some technological augmentation, of course, but with Bradley's ability to manipulate, we could leave most of Weapon XI's brain intact."

"Alright, you've got my interest. What do you need?" asked Stryker.

"A fresh sample of Bradley's genetic material."

"Does Bradley need to be dead, or alive for that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sure. If you need him alive, I'll send Zero. Otherwise, I'll send Victor."

Killbrew shrugged. "A sample is all I need. The state of the subject isn't important."

"Then I'll tell Creed I have a new task for him."

"There's no hurry. It's probably going to be a couple of years, yet, before we're ready for that upgrade."

"Also," said Cornelius, speaking up for the first time, "we'll first need to get our hands on a particular type of micro-processor, if we are to create some sort of neural interface."

Stryker fought back a sigh. There was always something else. "And where do you suggest we get that particular piece of equipment?"

Cornelius shrugged. "I hear the Russians have been doing some excellent things with cybernetics."

"Very well. I'll send Agent Zero to retrieve it. In the interests of national security, of course."

"Of course," Cornelius smiled. The doctor knew, by now, how the game was played. You could do _anything_ in the name of national security, and the patriotic, God-fearing public never questioned it.

"I'll leave the both of you to your research," he said. "I have to return to Bunker Five, and co-ordinate the locating of more of the mutants you've expressed an interest in working with. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, sir," said Cornelius, and Killbrew nodded in agreement.

As Stryker left the room, he heard the two quietly discussing the pros and cons of using radiation or trauma to trigger stem-cell uptake in Wilson's body. Then the door closed behind him, and their voices faded entirely. He returned briefly to his office here, to issue orders to the last remaining members of Team X, then took a single briefcase and made for the island's small dock, where a nondescript boat was waiting to take him back to the mainland.

This was an exciting time for the Weapon X project. Funding had been approved, Wilson had been captured alive, and soon his team of scientists would be able to start harvesting the powers of strong mutants to be combined within Weapon XI. His superiors in Washington thought it would end there, that this was about creating the perfect soldier to be used in open warfare. Which, in a way, it was. But now, the enemy wasn't Russia, or Cuba, or any of those back-water communist countries, but mutants. It wasn't just the American way of life that was at stake, but the _human_ way of life.

Doctors Killbrew and Cornelius had enough to be getting on with, for now. Not only did they already have Wilson, but their first powerful mutant to run DNA experiments on. Jason was on Three Mile Island, held in cryogenic stasis in one of the underground storerooms. The ability to project images into the minds of others would be a convenient tool in Weapon XI's arsenal, though Cornelius wasn't sure it would work. Something about brain receptors in Jason's mind being unique from birth. But that didn't matter. If mind-control couldn't be programmed into Weapon XI, there were still dozens of other powers that could be used, and didn't rely on brain-receptors to activate.

Yes, this was progress. It was his dream that, one day, humans and mutants could live together in peace. It was just a shame that mutants would have to live in servitude to humans… but they couldn't be trusted otherwise. Jason had proved that, and it was the most painful lesson Stryker had ever endured. He knew, now, that freedom came at a price. And this was a price worth paying.

_- The End -_

* * *

_Wade's Note: Aww, we've reached the end of the story. Hope you enjoyed reading about some guys who aren't me. And now, for something different, it's time for a Wade Wilson/Deadpool/Weapon XI sequel, yay! I just know you're all dying to find out what happens to me after that whole __**Three Mile Island**__ thing, right? I mean, I got decapitated and had a big concrete tower fall on me. I couldn't possibly come out of that still standing… right? Right? Well, tune in next week to find out!_

_What? Oh. The author tells me my sequel isn't ready yet. Apparently, you readers didn't send enough __**beer**__ to fuel the writing process. So! Next week you're getting a little one-shot story about some pansy angel dude called __**Castiel**__, which was supposed to be published ten weeks ago (before the author realised I am more awesome than angels). And then after that you're getting a short story from a __**brand new category!**__ Or, well, in this case, a very old category. Something called __**Covington Cross**__, which was a TV show back in the early 90s (are any of you old enough to remember that far back?) that lasted for 13 episodes before the simpletons at the network cancelled it. Aaand because the author says I won't get my sequel unless I plug this other stuff, here's why you should definitely read the Covington Cross tale (in twenty words or less):_

_**Mystery! Intrigue! Love! Deceit! Sword fights! Horses! Medieval babes! Knights in (somewhat) shining armour!**_

_Also, the author promises you don't have to have watched Covington Cross to get the gist of what's going on, as you'll be eased into the characters (you might also want to go watch Covington Cross on youtube, because it's loads of cheesy medieval fun, hint hint). Now, that fulfils my required amount of plugging. Go, do your stuff, read some things, write some things, send more beer, and come back in, oh, five or six weeks for __**my sequel yay!**_

_-_o_


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